Devoted to Nurosis
As you woke the room around you was completely foreign. You stretched languidly, clearing the sleep from your eyes. The dark silk of the sheets wrapped around your legs, matched your family colors, as did all the dressings within your apartments. The towels strung-up next to the bath matched, along with the cushioned chair at the writing desk in the corner.
A hint of smoke clung to your skin, making you blush with the memory of your dream. At least that was a small comfort amid the chaos. After they read your summons for the day, the horde of servants rushed into your room to bathe you, and dry your hair. Thankfully they allowed you to provide one of your own dresses for the occasion. You opted for a day gown, enchanted to be light as a feather and cooling on the skin. The fabric shifted from a dark garnet to deep purple in the light, drawing more attention to your hips where the fabric swayed the most. The sleeves were only to your elbows, and the bodice was laced up the front, permitting a slight glance at your chest. You waved your lady’s maid to your side, thankful for the familiarity the seclusion of your chambers provided.
“Halla, I will have to show them Mother’s death. And other, older things.” Your voice grew thick in remembrance, not of the hurtful comments, but the memories of secrets long ago buried.
“I know Jocelyn was your friend. And I’m sorry to replay these things in your presence let alone the prying eyes and loose tongues of an entire court.”
Halla nodded silently, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder signaling her understanding.
“Whatever I show, whatever they say. You cannot leave me there among strangers. If the spell is too much and I must rest only you are permitted to assist me.” You instructed solemnly, although the other servants had been kind, the air of ‘otherness’ still lingered over them.
Halla squeezed your shoulder and gestured to the sun’s position on the horizon. You had been instructed to appear within the royal court in supplication that morning, you feared the added attention was due to your rather impolite arrival.
As your steps echoed through the hushed halls, you ran a crystal talisman between your fingers and silently offered a prayer to your mother, your ancestors, and any gods you could invoke. The scrying spell you were attempting to use was simple enough but modified to show memories, as living images that filled viewer’s heads with their sounds. It relied entirely off your own energy, and the memories trapped within your own mind.
Formal members of the King’s guard barred your entrance. You had to wait with the other commoners until you were summoned before the court. With each passing second your thoughts grew louder, filling you with dread. Halla squeezed your hand, trying to pull you from your mind. But you couldn’t ignore the persistent fears, bubbling over with grief.
You couldn’t stop thinking about your mother. How her gentle smile soothed all the storms within your soul in one look. How she tutored and fostered your magick even when it threatened to outgrow and consume you. How she protected you…
“Mother,” you prayed silently, digging your fingers into your palms, “I swear by the old gods and all the stars in the sky, I will have our justice.” Your throat tightened as rage shook through your body, “Goddess, he’s taken too much from us,” you pleaded fervently, “I will do whatever needed. I’ll kill him if you see fit.” You gasped for air, noticing you’d been holding your breath. Quietly you whispered your last words to your goddess, “please do not let my family have died in vain.”
Your prayer echoed through your mind, silencing the other thoughts. Nothing here could hurt you, there was nothing more to lose. As you settled into your resolution, the guards called your name.
As a child you learned how to walk with your hips, so that an entire room might fall in love with your grace no matter your shape or the softness of your body. Although your future rested inside the room, you were done trying to win people over. You held your head high and oozed confidence in each step; in every way presenting the presence of a King, in every way your father couldn’t.
An appointed spokesperson explained to the court, the specifications of your spell, and that members of the courts and councils could proffer questions after the demonstration. Turning to you, they asked why you were showing these memories.
“To satisfy the questions of my birth and the guilt of my Mother’s consort: so your ‘King’ might better decide how to act in regard to the fraudulent contract.”
Your voice was clear, focused and factual. A few of the women in the gallery feigned gasps at your boldness. You almost rolled your eyes at their dramatics, and hoped whoever they were acting for was worth the embarrassment.
When you were instructed to cast your spell you carefully lined a small circle on the ground with salt and placed your talisman in the center.
With a few well placed gestures a smoke-like screen appeared and those who looked at it were drawn into the spell, seeing the memories you chose.
The first memory held the striking image of your mother, in all her regal glory. The two of you sat in the library reading through her favorite play. During a break your mother rang for tea but instead of her lady in waiting, was treated by your father. He’d brought only the one cup, “Sorry little one, just for Ro right now.” His words sparked an unsettling feeling in your stomach while your mother, surprised at the gesture, thanked him and drank the tea.
He retreated immediately, and although you couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling returned to your reading. Halfway through the climax, where the prince seeks revenge for his father’s murder, your mother stopped breathing. Just for a moment but your felt the change in the air. Your magick sparked along your skin and worry set in.
She appeared asleep, unusual for this play which usually stirred her spirits until the two of you were reading together. Terrified of what you might feel you hesitantly took her hand in yours, and screamed from the immense pain you could sense.
You leapt away from her out of instinct, your wavering and mumbling voice throwing spells and prayers towards her, while screaming for help. Nothing was working. None of the spells of restoration, health, or stasis.
“Little-One what’ve you done?” Your father’s voice interrupted your panicked administrations. You grabbed his hand and tried to have him help you. Pleading with him for her life as servants entered and someone ran for the doctor.
“At this point,” he sneered at you, “I’d try necromancy instead of those charms.” You turned quickly and screamed for him to leave, before returning to your mother. You knelt on the ground and held her limp hands in yours, her skin starting to discolor. You recited countless incantations, your voice growing hoarse limbs heavy with despair. She never woke up, remaining unresponsive for two more days before her death. The memory ended with her body shrouded in hazy gauze and flowers, laid out for her wake.
The next memory was from your younger years, you were running circles around your mother, catching butterflies. Tiny footfalls interrupted the idyllic scene as another little girl entered the memory. She appeared to be your duplicate, an exact copy, your twin Jocelyn. In the background your father lingered in the shade of a barren tree, listing as your sister asked “mumma why can’t I make the pretty lights dance like sissy does?”
The sound of your mother’s voice nearly sent you reeling. “You’ll understand when you’re older, but it’s how the gods decided who will become Queen, and who will become her advisor.”
“Oh! Like you and Aunt Dahlia?”
Your mother nodded while the child giggled, “Well that’s okay, I don’t want to be queen anyway! I wanna be a dancer!” Her little voice echoed as she twirled around.
The memory changed to the next night, you were in the library learning a new spell. Your mother guided your fingers over the runes, committing their shape to memory when a surprised scream tore through the castle followed by a sickening thud and torturous silence.
Your mother bade you stay put, while leaving to inspect the commotion. But her reverberating sobs commanded your frightened feet to move. You had never heard your mother cry before. The heap of tangled skirts at the bottom of the stairs confused you, convincing you to step closer. It was only then you noticed the all too familiar strands of hair, and the small fingers twisted into strange angles.
A flurry of servants crowded into the space, attending to your crumpled sister, and inconsolable mother. You quietly tugged on your mother’s skirt, “What will happen to us now mumma?”
“More importantly,” your father interrupted from the top of the stairs, “What will happen to the kingdom?” No one had heard his approach but how could they over the sobs?
Your mother shot a glare at him, before turning to kneel and hold your hands. She recounted your first brush with death, a little bird trapped in brambles, and how just like that, once the doctor came and saw Jocelyn, together you’d get to say goodbye, all the while tears in her eyes.
“But if she isn’t gonna come back I’ll have to pick a new advisor!” You said pouting, yet making sure to enunciate the syllables carefully, still to young to understand the permanence of death. The memory didn’t retain your mother’s response, as your focus was drawn by a strange noise. Your father’s grip on the railing had tightened with your question, the old wood splintering angrily into his hand.
Behind him a young maid darted into view. Her eyes were frantic searching for your mother, only to have her freeze upon being confronted with your father.
Her fear was so evident, she squeaked trying to back away. Unwilling to share the memories of a child’s funeral you let the image fade before ending the spell.
“He killed the wrong sister.” You spoke, pulling the court’s attention to you.
“It is our law that if the gods deemed none of our heirs deserving of magick, that their Queen Mother might rule instead… without a Queen Mother, an advisor or trusted consort might act as regent until the next successor is named.”
You kept your eyes trained forward, hoping the direct attention would prompt the Allfather’s response.
“Are there any who could speak to these assertions?” A noble asked pointedly filling the empty space.
“Yes, what of the servant? Can she not be produced to confirm your suspicions?” Another chimed in, pushing the matter. You nodded and gestured for Halla to approach you. Her face was stained with fresh tears, her heart heavy with renewed grief. You hoped, to some end justice would prevail so the gods might forgive what you were about to do.
“This is the woman in question. After the incident she became my personal companion and Lady/s maid-“
“And why can’t she tell us herself!”
“Because,” you said taking a measured breath to steady your resolve, “the next morning she was found, her tongue cut out.” You glanced in her direction as Halla sorrowfully opened her mouth to the abject horror of your questioners.
Odin struck his staff against the floor, demanding silence as he prepared his response. “No proof has been shown against this contract, only speculation, and I’ll not interfere in another kingdom’s political entrapments.” He spoke carefully, weighing all the possible meanings of each word.
You interjected politely, “Allfather, I was not asking you to. I simply wanted you to know from whom you’ve bought me.”
The clever assertion almost brought a smile to the King’s face. Although you had no way of knowing his previous decision, your wit comforted him that he was at least giving his kingdom someone with intelligence.
“That being said, in honoring this arrangement I’m forced to acknowledge the claims of your birth. With the context you have provided us, It would disgrace your Queen Mother and your right as her heir to pawn you off to some noble already home with two wives.”
You almost laughed aloud, thinking at least that oddly specific fear was addressed.
“Instead I’d rather strengthen this alliance, in marrying my son.”
“Ah yes,” you thought, “the absentee hero.” You were thankful to stay within the familiar and welcoming household, and more grateful still for the support towards your heritage. But, Gods that would be boring. Marrying Thor would be marrying a fleeting bird. His appearances on Asgard were scattered and unpredictable, despite the advantageous match it would condemn you to the life of a favored toy. To be used and remembered at the whims of an altogether preoccupied man.
“My Lady, consider this my concession that you will make a formidable Queen-“
“My King would that really be appropriate? A woman of disputed heritage as our Queen?” One of the previous questioners objected, utterly appalled.
Obviously you had missed some subtext. You had assumed the same thing, and took his assertions as your betrothal to Thor. You tried to keep your face stoic amid the pleasant but shocking revelation, that he preferred you wed Loki. For all your efforts you couldn’t prevent the slight flush that colored your cheeks and the tips of your ears.
“I have found her heritage admissible. And am I not your king?”
The man’s hurried apology and departure signaled a change in tone, the other nobles having a new scandal to gossip about. One of their own challenged the King’s authority, only to run away.
“Now barring anymore interruptions,” Odin continued, a jovial light dancing at the corners of his eyes, “Upon his coronation you will be married to Loki Odinson; Prince of Asgard, So says your King.” Despite his genial tone, the pit of your stomach turned feeling the courtroom on edge awaiting your response. Of course even after the replaying of traumas, and discussion of legitimacy, you were still expected to follow the rules of polite society.
“Allfather, I thank thee. This concession is more than I expected. I hope I prove worthy of your assertions.” You prayed to all the gods of your world, the tremble in your voice wasn’t heard. You had not expected to be Queen, of this place or any. You feared, in doing so he had doomed your chances of returning home. You couldn’t be the Queen of two places so far apart. Queens couldn’t overthrow their fathers or go to war.
You couldn’t compose your loud thoughts as Halla lead you from the room. It wasn’t a bad match, under any other circumstances you’d be thrilled with the prospects of taking a King as your consort. But you weren’t taking a consort, you were being given as a bride.
Waves of sound echoed in your ears mostly your thoughts but partially something else, potentially someone else you couldn’t tell, the noises were all a stabbing crescendo of tangled words and fears of failure building up and up and up until you were swimming in noise and you couldn’t breathe. Oh gods you couldn’t breathe and your chest restricted so that your heart hurt and then- you were falling.
Thankfully, you were already down the hallway and Halla caught you in enough time. Your body was failing you, you were dying- that had to be it. Halla guided your shaking form behind a pillar away from prying eyes. She gripped your hand, tracing the rune for “panic” slowly and deliberately until your breathing slowed, and you could think again.
You whispered your thanks, and let Halla lead you to your room and into bed. Despite the midday sun peering through from the balcony, your mind was exhausted and sleep quickly followed.