Chapter 15
As soon as the guard releases you, you stumble, only to be caught by the queen. You collapse in her arms, sobbing.
"As clumsy as she is foolish," Odin mutters. "I see no reason to let you live. If anything, I should rid the world of you and the abomination you carry." You squeeze your eyes shut. You'd sooner kill him than let him hurt your baby. "But I am not so cruel. You will be allowed to bear it to full term. And you will never see him again."
The words ring hollow in your mind as the tears run down your face. There is an spark, a fire deep within your chest, that urges you to fight. To lunge at the guards, the crowd, Odin himself—to charge at them all, to battle with tooth and nail until all the doors are unlocked and you are able to drag Loki back to Midgard, once and for all.
But a voice echoes in your ear. You’re reckless. You don’t think, (Y/N).
This isn’t what Loki would want. More to the point, if you act rashly now you’ll be proving him right.
So instead you bite your tongue. You straighten up, brushing back tears and neutralizing your expression as best you can, and you nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
You don’t protest as the guards usher you away.
They set you up in a fairly comfortable room. Extremely comfortable, actually; all lit fireplaces and plush carpets and finely-carved furniture.
You’ll be the coziest prisoner in all the land.
It doesn’t even look like a guest room. Whoever prepared it for you must have gone to great lengths to dust and air out the whole thing, but that’s not it. This space feels distinctly lived in. There’s a book on the nightstand, and papers scattered across the desk; the walls are lined with floating shelves carrying any number of little trinkets. You reach for the one nearest you—a small wooden puzzle box, reminiscent of a Rubik’s cube—only to pull your hand back at the last moment. You lived with Loki for years. You know what magic feels like. Most, if not all, of these knick-knacks must be imbued with some amount of it. You wonder what would happen if you were to touch one.
You decide to leave that query untested for today.
Hours later, you’re freshly bathed and sitting cross-legged against the headboard, swaddled in an oversized robe you pulled out of the closet, combing your hair, when you hear a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Sure, you should probably be as on-guard as possible here. But you doubt you could actually stop anyone from entering your room if you tried, so what’s the point?
And you doubt that Frigga, of all people, has it out to get you. Even now, as she crosses from the door to meet you by the foot of your bed, her presence puts you at ease.
“Your Majesty.” You rise to curtsy, but she holds a hand up.
“There’s no need for such formalities. Please, sit.” You obey. “How are you finding your accommodations?”
“More than comfortable.” You realize you’re picking at your nails. It’s a bad habit you re-picked-up during your brief stay at your parents’ house, and it’s proving even harder to quit this time around. You fold your hands neatly in your lap in an attempt to still the nervous movement. “Truly. You are...this is too kind. All of it. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” To your surprise, she comes around to sit on the edge of your bed. "How old are you, my child?"
You suppose you should be used to that question by now. "Old enough."
You realize a moment too late that sarcasm isn’t necessarily the best course of action here. To your surprise, though, she smiles at your playful deflection. "I can see why my son is so enamoured of you."
You're even more startled by her words. "After everything, you still consider him your son?"
"Do you not still love him?" You nod. "I raised him. Whatever Odin may say, Loki is my son. There are stronger bonds than mere flesh and blood."
"Odin seems..."
"He can be cruel. But he does what he believes is best for the realm." She leans forward, wiping one last tear from your cheek. "As you now must do what is best for your child."
"And Loki?"
"I will see to it that he is comfortable, but there is not much more that I can do. I am forbidden to see him, as are you."
"And you're just going to accept that?"
She sighs, looking away. "A ruler must do many unpleasant things—"
"—for the good of their kingdom," you finish with her. She looks up, surprised. "I’ve heard that in quite a few arguments over the years."
“Years?” She places a gentle hand over yours. "You're a brave girl, winning the love of a man who destroyed so many of your people."
"He didn’t—I mean, yes, but...you, of all people, must know that wasn’t him.”
She looks away. “I know. I suspect Odin does, as well.”
“But then why—”
“What proof have you or I of his innocence?” For the first time, you detect a note of bitterness in her voice. She’s right, of course. You have no proof. No proof but your trust, and something tells you that’s going to get you even less far here than it did back on Earth. If Midgardians saw you as a silly, inexperienced girl for being just barely out of your teens, what must you look like to a population made entirely of old gods?
The thought is overwhelming. Even your concept of forever pales in comparison to an Asgardian’s idea of eternity. Loki will spend the rest of his life in a cell, which means he will certainly spend the rest of your life in a cell, and that means…
“I never told him,” you say quietly. One hand flits to your lower abdomen, recalling the reason you are allowed to live in the first place. “About the baby. He never knew, and now…”
I’m really, truly never going to see him again.
You feel Frigga wrap her arms around you before you even realize you’re crying.
As she strokes the back of your head, rocking you gently, you feel a deeper peace settle into your bones than you’ve experienced in quite some time. At least part magic, you’re certain, but there is also the realization that it has been so long since you’ve felt so...accepted. Accepted in such a maternal way.
As much as you want to deny it, you miss your mom. And your dad, and your siblings, and your friends—those who supported you and those who didn’t. It is a feeling similar to your first arrival at the palace at sixteen, and yet there is a new dimension to this grief that is entirely unfamiliar, because then at least you had some hope of seeing them again, and now…
It was a difficult life you left back on Midgard, but it was yours, and now it is gone.
The tears fall even faster. Frigga shushes you gently.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, though you make no move to pull away. “I didn’t—I just—”
“Do not apologize for the mistakes of others,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I can’t do more to ease the pain. But it will pass, I promise.”
You can’t keep your voice from breaking as you ask, “Will it?”
She nods. “In time.” She reaches to touch your face, wiping away a few errant tears. “But in the meantime, you should rest. I’ve arranged some plans for you tomorrow.”
“Plans?”
“Social plans.” So soon? She must sense your reluctance, because she continues, “I understand this is a difficult transition to make, and I don’t wish to rush your grief. But the sooner you are immersed in the social customs of Asgard, and the safer you will be.” Safer?
You have so many questions, but you can’t deny that you are absolutely exhausted. So you nod.
“Is there anything more you wish to discuss, before I leave you?”
“I—” There is one more thing—or, one more person, rather—that you haven’t been able to shake from your mind since this morning. But you shake your head. Sleep now, questions later. After all, I’m going to spend the rest of my life here. I have all the time in the world. You try not to wince at the thought. “No. Thank you.”
“Sleep well, (Y/N).”
“Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
As the door closes behind her, before you have a chance to blow out the candles, you hear a light clicking noise. You wait a few moments before lifting the covers and creeping over to the door.
The knob feels normal, when you touch it. It even twists. But when you attempt to put any pressure forwards or backwards on it, even slightly, a soft golden light emanates from the crack between the door and the doorframe. You frown, and test it again. Same result. Hm.
You already knew you were a prisoner, of sorts, but...it’s still a bit unnerving. Especially when you have no way of locking the door from the inside, and you don’t know if the charm works both ways. Placing a chair beneath the doorknob doesn’t feel strong enough. The next nearest piece of furniture to the door—the nearest piece that looks movable, that is—is a chest of drawers. Dragging that in the way makes you feel a bit safer, but you still can’t quite stop the chill that flutters down your spine every time you hear what you think could be footsteps coming up or down the hall outside.
That night, you sleep with the candles lit.