Ensomhet
Sylvie has always known there was something magical about the palace at night.
A certain solitude and calmness to be found within its gardens and ancient winding corridors, as the once bustling frenzy of the day would fade with the falling sun.
When she was a girl, Sylvie would spend hours wandering the empty, silent halls alone, exploring every nook and cranny of her adopted home as the rest of the kingdom slept, and dreamed of bright and shiny desires.
And through those nocturnal roamings alone and unwatched, the unfailing night became her dearest friend and most constant companion. A silent confidant to which she could always show her true, unfettered face without judgement, for the night was devoid of those oppressive expectations or silly protocols that had been lain upon her young shoulders.
To the night, she could be j ust Sylvie .
Not a princess or your highness or even m’lady , just her true, unbridled , complicated self.
Indulging her curiosity as much as her penchant for mischief.
Sometimes, when she was feeling brave, Sylvie would find her way into the throne room and sit upon her father’s royal seat undisturbed. Sylvie would look out upon Odin’s cosmic realm with amazement, and try to imagine what it would be to rule and devote yourself so entirely to your people. She would ponder upon the burden of it all.
Ultimately …..at the end of these fanciful imaginings, Sylvie was glad the responsibility would never fall to her, as Thora was more than willing to take up the mantle when Odin was ready to cede power.
It was universally acknowledged truth that Sylvie would never rule, nor did she ever want to, for her ambitions had always lain elsewhere.
As far away from the pomp and ceremony of royal duty as she possibly could.
Sylvie’s favorite nights of clandestine wanderings were alway those she would spend in the great hall of the Valkyries. Her time spent sneaking past the many sleeping warriors and into their armory to admire the dragonfangs that hung on every wall. The hallowed, azure blades the most beautiful sight in the world to her.
If she was feeling particularly brave that night, Sylvie would gingerly take a sword into her small, child sized hand and hold the blade aloft in careful imitation of Brunhilde and her loyal sisters in arms.
She would promise fealty to her King, and her life, to protecting Asgard from all threats seen and unseen.
From those first tentative formations of her dream, Sylvie had become blissfully excited for her future as a Valkyrie, her eager mind already imaging a happy, fulfilled life away from the stuffiness and stifling order of being a princess.
Those night of make belief and carefree hope had always been the happiest of her young life, imaging her new life among their venerated ranks. Finally belonging.
And she had come close, so very close, to reaching that dream of serving her home and family.
But then Thora had abdicated the throne.
Given up her birthright and realm, all for the love of a mortal man and their simple, mortal life.
Thora had thrown in her lot with the Avengers of Midgard, swearing loyalty to its people and its lands, instead of her own. All because of her love for one person.
Love and romance; they were trivial sentiments Sylvie did not understand, for the dagger point of love had yet to pierce her heart. Sure ,she had always had flying fancies when it came to attachments and pretty, beautiful things and she certainly had indulged in her desires quite eagerly, but no one had captured her heart quite so entirely as Jean had for Thora.
Sylvie did not understand it, loving such a fragile, transient creature, but, she also did not stand in her sister’s way once she saw the hope in Thora’s eyes.The earnestness of her feelings. Sylvie had accepted her duty to rule as the next in line, with little complaint, and quietly put away those fervent dreams of childhood.
Sylvie would never be a Valkyrie; no, Sylvie would be a Queen of Asgard.
What would Odin have thought of such a thing if he had lived to see it, a frost giant on the throne!
The she-wolf usurper in sheep’s clothing.
When her father had crossed into Valhalla, dissolving into Odinforce and joining the ranks of his lofty ancestors, the line of succession had been clear.
Thora would rule the Nine Realms.
Then Hela had shown up and Odin’s carefully lain plans had been thrown into disarray.
It had almost ended them all.
Eventually Thora defeated their eldest sister and banished her back to Hel, but by then, the best of Sylvie’s sister had almost been drained away. Her gregarious nature snuffed out like a candle flame, only to be replaced by a quiet sadness and numb shellshocked disposition. Thora and Sylvie had lost so many friends to the battles with Hela, and only Lady Sif had survived those bitter battles relatively unscathed. The Warriors Three now all carried permanent remainders and scars of the war, Hoguns loyalty toward Thora rewarded by the loss of a leg by Helas hand, so it was no wonder Thora had struggled. All the while their mother had endured wounds the naked eye would never see, cracks in her heart that may never heal even after decades of peace.
So it was decided, Thora would need time to rest and heal, to recover away from the expectations of her new realm and ready herself for what was to come next.
Thora had gone to Midgard, intent on recuperating and preparing herself for the weight of the crown she had inherited, but instead, Thora had come back many moons later changed .
More at peace and sure of her own path.
And though it pained Sylvie to become Queen after Thora had refused the crown, the very thing Sylvie had steadfastly wanted to avoid; she accepted the task, because it was her duty to serve the Asgard.
As her father and mother had done before her.
There was never a greater or more glorious purpose.
Frigga had never looked more proud of her, than the day Sylvie had taken up the mantle with such grace and humility. Knowing in her heart, this once lost, lonely child of the Jotunheim was exactly the Queen they needed. The leader they needed.
For those that do not seek power, are the most qualified to hold it.
So what would Odin the ever-wise Allfather, have thought of this strange turn of events, this new evolved age of Asgard?
He would have been proud of his brilliant, bright and cunning daughter, just as much as she.
Things have gotten more difficult as of late, Sylvie cannot deny it.
As there’s chasm open within her now that can never seem to be forged, for the path it has driven is too abstract and confounding to close the gap or paper over the cracks. There is an emptiness within that hollows out her spirit.
It has been a long time since Sylvie has indulged in that girlhood habit of late-night wanderings, as the warm bed of lovers has proven a much too grand distraction to forgo in place of maudlin, solitary roaming. But as of late, the hedonism of mindless sex does little to settle her restless heart, the physical exchanges empty and without satisfaction beyond that immediate release.
Even Lady Sif’s usually irresistible form does little to rouse her interests, her mind as absent of desire as her bed remains, as a new and wistful energy fills her.
There is a void inside that cannot be ignored. As though something precious has been torn out from her chest, cast aside like scraps, and banished to the far side of existence.
These vivid and confusing dreams of late stoke the disorder even further, the images so real, she cannot tell the difference between the waking and imagined world each morning her eyes open to the new day. There are days she doesn’t want to wake up, the dark-haired stranger from her dreams making her heart soar in ways no other has, his eyes so blue she feels as if she could drown in them.
The richness of this life never lived; this love never fulfilled; it troubles her more than she can openly admit.
For she is searching for something she doesn’t even have the words for, yearning for something so profound, it seems little more than foolish imaging.
Her heart aches for a man she has never met, a melodious voice she has never heard speak and a tender kiss she has yet to match.
Sylvie feels lost, torn asunder by her own sleeping mind.
It is absurd, to be in love with the idea of a person, enchanted by a dark-haired spectre conjured by her mind, that doesn’t even exist.
So she moves, rises swiftly from her vast bed, and walks around the familiar hallways she has known all her life, trudging on until she finds the answers to questions she doesn’t even know to ask.
Now that the month-long celebration of her coronation is over and all her grateful, honored guests have returned to their realms, the halls of Asgard are quiet and still once more at this time of night. The only faces Sylvie happens upon on her nightly marches are her guards, who bow and do not dare to question why their new Queen wanders the halls at night like a phantom.
Odin had his own eccentricities too.
The night is her friend once more, it peaceful and accepting of her needs.
Tonight, Sylvie’s wayfaring feet take her to the long ornate hall of the palace gallery, the regal faces of her predecessors watching her quietly as she traverses the moonlit room in careful, even steps.
Her tired eyes trail the beautiful portraits absentmindedly, thoughts flowing elsewhere until she meets the somber expression of her father, Odin’s ice blue stare peering right through to her soul as her footsteps stall to a stop in front of him.
“Hei far.” she whispers quietly, sighing heavily in defeat before conjuring herself a small chair to sit and look up at him with a heavy heart.
“I miss you” Sylvie adds in an even softer exhales as she sinks into deep cushions at her back, a pang of unexpected sadness washing over her the longer she meets his all-seeing eye. Knowing somehow, somewhere, he can see the turmoil she feels inside, the mistrust in herself, as though she is an interloper upon the throne.
“I could really use your guidance right about now......”
She wonders as she looks upon the man that raised her, whether he too had been beset by such self-doubt at the start of his reign. Probably not, but then again, Odin had been a true born heir.
Unlike her.
The Jotunheim trickster, the harbinger of chaos, the wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Queen Sylvie Laufeydottir.
Studying Odin’s craggy, pale face, she cannot ignore the similarity to her own. His pale blue eyes and curly blonde hair almost an exact match to her own despite the separation of blood and family line, for she was remade in his image all those moons ago.
When Odin had found her cold and alone on Jotunheim, the good king had reformed her into something softer, something easy to hide.
He had renamed her, stripped her of that Frost Giant name of Loki and given her a new name reflective of an alternate life.
Sylvie; the child from the forest, come to form a new branch and strengthen Yggdrasil for the next dynasty.
Looking to her left, Sylvie’s eyes fall upon the portrait of Frigga by Odin’s side, her ebony skin luminous in the moonlight. At her flank, a very young Thora tries to hide behind the ruffles of her yellow dress, her sister’s caramel skin and bright green eyes framed by the most glorious mane of sable-colored curls.
Looking down at her hands, the skin porcelain and scarred here and there by training scars, Sylvie ponders why she never considered matching her mother and sister, for their differences became more and more pronounced as they grew.
Why did she remain wise Odin’s double instead, was it to please him in some silly, jealousy way?
Knowing, she would always come second-best in his affections, no matter how hard she tried.
Sylvie lets the enchantment over her body slip a little, watching as her hand changes from porcelain to cobalt, the texture of her skin thickening with the tone. It is oddly beautiful, the blue as rich as it is terrifying to her curious eyes.
Why does she hide at all?
Sylvie catches her reflection in the glass of the skylight above her, seeing the blood red irises of her kind staring back at her so starkly, she cannot help but shiver.
She is no more Frost Giant then she is Asgardian, for she is neither and yet she is both.
Her true form slowly fades as she let the ancient spell operate unimpeded once more, her skin a soft and peachy white to hide the truth within.
She shivers as the last blot of blue warms to pink, shaking off that lingering cold that once seeped from her skin.
“There you are my darling” Frigga exhales suddenly in relief behind her, all but startling the young queen with her close proximity.
"What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?" Frigga asks gently, conjuring a low bench beneath them both as she sits by Sylvie's side.
The young Queen shifts uncomfortably under her watchful gaze, choosing instead to stare at her carefully cropped nails, than the soft amber of her mothers searching eyes.
"I couldn't sleep" she murmurs back, rubbing her suddenly clammy hands against her silken robe with a grimace.
"Bad dreams again?" Frigga states more than asks, drawing a deep sigh from her daughter.
"Something like that" Sylvie answers quietly, turbulent mind once more falling upon the false memory of a train journey to nowhere. A song of childhood ringing in her ears.
Frigga’s brow furrows in concern as Sylvie’s body seems to fold in on itself, her posture slumped forward as she rests her elbows on her knees.
"You seem troubled little one.....are you quite well?".
Her daughter stiffens beside her, her face dark and hesitant as she turns to her mother. Biting on her bottom lip, Sylvie mulls over the question, hesitant to lay it all out in the open.
In the end, the truth is too hard burden to swallow.
"Honestly, no.....I'm not Mother.....I feel…."
She pauses, a hollowness settling in the centre of her chest as her eyes grow wistful.
"...lost."
The silence is weighty and inescapable for a moment as time ticks on with long and uneven strokes. The elder Queen absorbing every tiny detail of her admission.
Frigga studies her face, watching the usually carefree, rakish expression of her daughter shift and harden. There is a desperation to found in the set of her mouth, a longing for something unseen and undefined in those storm blue eyes.
Frigga's attention turns to the imposing image of her dearly departed husband as he watches over them with an imperious frown, her mood thoughtful as she digests Sylvie's words. She sighs and reaches out for her daughter’s hand, squeezing lightly in some gentle attempt at reassurance.
"You know.....Your darling and often gruff father, wept every night of his first ten moons on the throne.....he hated it. Every single moment, until one day, the mind killing fear just…..floated away.”
She squeezes Sylvie’s hand once more and turns to face her on the bench.
“So this feeling of being lost or uncertain, it is perfectly normal…..think of it as a right of passage, a challenge that poisons all great leader….because heavy is the head that wears the crown, even when you’ve prepared for leadership all your life."
Sylvie gives her a small, wry smile. Quietly thankful for mother’s attempts at comfort.
" The all-father, weeping like a startled maiden! Now I've heard everything " she teases gently.
"Your father was a big old softie at heart....even if he had a hard time showing it sometimes. Sylvie, my darling, he adored you to your very bones, just as he did your sister".
Sylvies smile is small and shy as she tucks chin against her shoulder for a moment, her turbulent mind stilled for a breath as a feeling of contentment washes over her. She squeezes her mothers hand back as Frigga beams gently at her.
“So he wouldn’t be horrified by the thought of this chaotic, Frost Giant orphan on the throne.” She says after beat, a teasing tone softening the underlying feelings of inadequacy below.
Friggas brow darkens before she leans forward with an almost desperate but earnest fury.
“ Never …..you belong at that seat as much as Thora ever did.”
Sylvie smiles wanly back at her in reply before letting go of her mother’s hand, a heavy sigh leaving her body as her gaze turns morosely to the most recent royal portrait on the wall.
Her own.
The woman she sees painted above her is drapped in the deepest purple, her cloak shot through here and there with a vibrant green along the hem, whilst that hallowed Galgenir, is clasped tightly in her right hand. She looks every inch a Queen as she glares out at the observer, simmering with this look of determination and almost provocation, as though willfully goading her critics to challenge her. Her crown is winged at its side like Odin’s before, but the horns are more understated as they curve outward from her forehead, acting as a warning and deterrent at meeting her head on. The headstrong, wily, usurper Queen.
Sylvie hates it, every last paint stroke on the canvas. She hates it and the glaring lies it contains.
She despises what it represents, for she will have to hide behind this image of strength and doggedness for the rest of her life. She will have to become what they are molding her to be.
Uncompromising, canny, and perhaps worst of all, cold .
“I know this was never what you wanted my Sylvie....” her mother begins softly, reaching again for her hand as she looks at her daughter with such tender understanding.
“....That the life you envisioned had never included a throne......but”
Frigga swallows down the guilt the wells in her throat as she remembers the look of abject disappointment that spread across Sylvie’s face when she realized she would never be a Valkyrie and that quiet acceptance of duty without complaint, when she learned of Thora’s abdication. That dark and wicked day had only been surpassed by Odin’s death, as the day that wrought the most devastion to her life, that final crushing blow to a dream never to be fulfilled.
“You have the wits and compassion to make the most wonderful Queen Sylvie, and I for one, could not be prouder of you.”
Sylvie’s sad look softens as she gives Frigga an affectionate, half smile, a slight pink staining her cheeks as she blushes. She does not vocalise her thanks, but nods in reply, ducking her head low as she tries to push past her growing embarrassment. She never did do well with compliments.
They sit in silence again for a long time, absorbing the gentle peace of the late night quiet as the rest of realm sleeps soundly around them. It is soothing to sit there in that muted land of darkness, a certain satisfaction to be found in this unexpected role as benevolent sentinal, watching over their people and protecting them from harm.
But .
Frigga senses something much greater is at work here, Sylvie’s mood an ominous and spreading cloud of uncertainty that has nothing to do with her newfound dominion. There is another factor here at play.
She doesn’t have to wait long before glimpses of the truth slowly tumbles out of Sylvie’s worried mouth.
“Have you ever dreamed of a life half lived? Of a world so real...you cannot always tell if you are asleep or awake?” she asks suddenly, her eyes solemn and desperate as she tries to put into words the mystery that refuses to shift from her psyche. Frigga’s eyes narrow in confusion as her mind runs over the strange, unexpected question.
“You mean a lucid dream?” she answer with a skeptical arch of her dark brow, amber eyes searching Sylvie’s azure ones as her daughter’s features twist in frustration.
“No.....not exactly.....more.....memories of a life you never led?”
“So not visions?” Frigga suggests plainly to no avail, as Sylvie’s frustration deepens at her lack of understanding.
“No....not visions of what could be, but visions of what has been.....or could have been, in another life?”
Frigga ponders the question a moment, before slowly shaking her head as her daughter’s face falls in obvious dismay. Disheartened she has found no answers from her usually very reliable and wise mother.
“What do you dream of elskling?” Frigga asks after a moment, her face full of interest as she leans a little closer to Sylvie. The young Queen squirms in her seat, discomfort colouring her face as she glances away.
“People.....” she mutters awkwardly “sometimes strange and wonder places at the ends of worlds”
“Like Ragnarok?”
“Sort of.....sometimes, these strange dream are nothing more than a warm feeling and whisper of a kind words.”
“You dream of love?”
Sylvie’s eyes widen and her face colours deeper until the crimsonhue of her cheeks spreads down the length of her neck and onto her chest.
“Perhaps...” she says barely above a whisper, suddenly bashful “maybe? I don’t really know.”
Frigga hums softly to herself, considering it all with careful glee as her eyes twinkle with something akin to hope and excitement.
“Maybe it truly is an echo of the future?” she ponders aloud, fixing Sylvie with an affectionate look.
“Just be open to the opportunity of it all if he or she finally does make an appearance” she adds with a hint of teasing in her voice. Sylvie laughs lightly as she nods in agreement.
“Okay Mother, I will try against my better instincts.”
Frigga grins in amusement.
“That is all I ask little one.”
With that, the old Queen rises to her feet and presses a kiss to her daughter’s golden head.
“Alas the hour is now taking its toll and I must bid you goodnight my love.”
Sylvie reaches out and squeezes her mother’s hand lightly as she gives her a warm smile.
“Pleasant dreams Mother.”
“Same to you my lovely Sylvie.”
Frigga then turns and starts to make her way out of the gallery without another word. Sylvie’s smile slowly fades as she watches the dark head of her mother begin to fade into the shadows of the night.
She sighs heavily once more as her eyes fall to her clenched hands, a new wave of sadness washing over her as this chronic sense of disconnect darkens her thoughts.
Unfurling her fingers, a small burst of heat and light explodes from her palm as her magic manifests itself into the most beautiful display of miniature fireworks. The small pops and fizzes drawing a bittersweet smile from her lips.
“Oh how precious” her mother remarks at the other end of the room, her form paused by the wide, arching doorway several yards away.
“Who taught you such a sweet trick?”
Sylvie clears her throat, her hand clenching back into a fist to quench the fireworks once more. For how can a simple dream offer such lessons, it cannot be possible.
“No one. It was no one” she murmurs back, her eyes glassy and despondent as distant dream of stranger seems further and further away.