Chapter 1
I. Prologue
Jötunheim - On the shores of Aurgelmir, the eternal ocean
The body of the great wolf rose from the ocean, cutting through the harsh waves of Aurgelmir to make its way to the shore. Even in Jötunheim’s weak sunshine, three moons still until the Thawing, Fenrir generated a body heat so great that the ocean water steadily rose clear into steam from the wolf’s thick fur. Mighty jaws grappled with a gleaming, silver fish for a brief moment—then, with a satisfying crunch, Fenrir swallowed down the catch, writhing scales and all, and padded forward to snuffle at Loki’s outstretched hand.
“There you are,” Loki said, hands reaching up to curl tight around the fur behind the wolf’s ears, kneading.
There was a sudden rustling sound at the edge of the water. As one, both Jötun and wolf turned and watched the dark waters ripple and thrash as a flurry of vildankka, a flock of at least a hundred, settled down from their flight.
Fenrir growled low, finned tail swinging back and forth. “No, come now,” Loki said firmly, guiding the wolf further from the shore. Unattended, Fenrir would gambol up to the feathered beasts and chase them into a panic. When the Bracing months ended and the Thawing came, the vildankka would fly south to the mountains, their huge bodies darkening the sky for days. Fenrir would be pleased then, chasing the great wild birds through the snow for days. Loki, on the other hand, would not be there to see them off.
“I wish you could come with me,” Loki said, but even as the words were given over to the wind, Fenrir’s exasperated snort waved over Loki’s side in a burst of heat and warmth. A conversation they’d had many times. The Æsir would not welcome the sea-wolf in their presence, even if they had to tolerate Loki’s.
“We all wish you could take the wolf, Loki, because no one else will clean up those fishbones from your rooms,” a voice said behind them, and Loki sighed and looked up to see Byleistr standing off to the side, arms crossed.
“And, ideally, someone’s got to keep you in line,” Byleistr continued, “As our eldsibb just this morning ran us all into circles wondering where you’d flown off to.”
“Fenrir was hungry,” Loki supplied easily, not bothering to attempt a better lie as they walked up to Byleistr, who stood two heads taller than Loki.
Loki paid obeisance with a bared throat, kin lines on display for Byleistr’s eyes. Byleistr acknowledged the gesture with a tilt of the head.
“Always so formal, little sibb,” Byleistr said, all gruff affection, resting fingertips on the kin lines on Loki’s forehead, the semi-circle that they shared with their bearer.
“You’ll miss it when I go,” Loki said.
“Will I? Then I suppose I should be glad you’re not leaving forever,” Byleistr said.
“Mm. Just four moons in Asgard and I’ll be home for the Meltwater,” Loki said, pressing up into Byleistr’s touch for a moment before pulling away.
“I do hope you can cope in Asgard’s climate,” Byleistr said, looking out at the coast. A naturalist and educator by profession, Byleistr almost regretted not having the chance to see and study the Golden Realm.
Perhaps, if the treaty worked out…One cycle of travelling between two realms, to see if Loki Laufeysbairn and Thor Odinson would survive their union. Until the cycle was over, the realms would wait with bated breath for peace to win out over war. The thought of it all was enough to make Byleistr’s back ache. Better to leave the politicking to the First and Third Scions of Jotunheim.
“You’ve seen me march into Muspelheim,” Loki said, arching an eyebrow. “If there is anyone whose health is endangered by this union, it is the Odinson’s. Aesir do so loudly like to complain about—what was it?”
“The Cold,” Byleistr supplied.
The siblings shared a look.
“Boggling,” Loki said.
“Indeed,” Byleistr said.
“I will have to look for spells to combat…whatever that is.”
“Already so solicitous of your future spouse, Loki?”
“Hardly. But I suppose the Odinson must live. I’m fairly sure that was a provision in the treaty. Helblindi and I worked very hard on it, you know.”
“Ah, of course. Then I don’t suppose I have to tell you, once more, to refrain from causing mayhem in Asgard,” Byleistr said with mild apprehension. As they made their way further up the coast, Byleistr waved to some fisherfolk who were looking for their noonday meals in the tidal pools. Loki did not turn to look.
“As I’ve already told you more times than I recall, I wouldn’t dream of it,” was the reply, which meant that Loki probably come up with another dozen plans since the last time Helblindi and Byleistr had cautioned against it.
“I suppose everyone needs an outlet,” Byleistr said in a mutter, and was rewarded with Loki’s quicksilver grin.
When they reached the skiff that Byleistr had taken to the beach, Loki drew up short and flashed that quicksilver smile again.
“Ah,” Loki said. Byleistr sighed.
Loki reached into a pocket in space and pulled out a feathered cloak, inspecting it and shaking it out. The feathers seemed to reorganize, layers emerging and disappearing, until it was entirely white but for the black hood.
“I have one more stop.” Loki swept the cloak up and drew it on, the feathers shifting and settling into place.
In the far horizon, Byleistr could just barely see the shining majakka, the beacon at the northernmost tip of Utgard. It had ever been the way of the Jotnar to wait until the Bracing to return the dead unto Aurgelmir, where the soul would find the ice at the end of all things. But the war had been hard. Jotnar had been left on the ground for the Thawing and Meltwater. In those harsh months, the floods would have swept their bodies further from the eternal ocean. All those souls, wandering lost.
In the days after the war, any time Loki had that was not spent working on the treaty had been spent in the majakka. Byleistr did not like to think of Loki—fierce, sly, mischievous Loki—in that place, kneeling for hours, too much guilt and grief pouring out of those clasped hands.
“Are you quite all right?” Loki asked, feigning concern. “No need to mourn me yet, eldsibb.”
Byleistr snorted. “Go on, then.”
With a final nod, Loki drew the cloak of feathers tighter and tighter—until Jötun disappeared and bird emerged, wings and beak and all, and took to the air.
“You’ll talk to Helblindi yourself, first thing, when you come back,” Byleistr called out gruffly.
The slender little lokki gave a shrill cry, and disappeared into the clouds.
Byleistr then turned and wondered how to get Loki’s wolf back to the Valaisin.
Only, Fenrir gave Byleistr a crooked grin, and bounded after the lokki, sending up plumes of snow in Byleistr’s face.
—
Jötunheim - at the majakka
Here, at the tip of Utgard, Loki shed the form of the bird and knelt in Jötunheim’s snow. Sent up a prayer to the ancestors. Took shelter in the roar of the ocean. Thunderous, Loki thought, lips twisting at the irony.
The waters of Aurgelmir crashed against the cliffs on either side of the majakka, playing out a scene that had persisted since the beginning of time. The water heaved, the land braced itself. The longest struggle the universe had ever paid witness to.
In the eyes of the ancestors, whatever Loki knew of struggle was vulgar, crude: war was not the Jotun way. But war was cruel, regardless, and it did not accept compromise.
And after lifetime spent at war, here Loki was, playing at marriage. To pay tribute to life instead of taking it. Perhaps the ancestors would be pleased with that. Still, Loki thought it was akin to asking a blizzard to tend to a rosebud.
And tend to it you will, Loki thought. Even if it kills you. Even if the Asgardian sun bleeds you dry and bleaches your bones.
Byleistr had threatened, more than once, to tear the Odinson’s cock off if Loki was ever mistreated. Loki had only laughed: a promise to at least leave something of the Odinson for Byleistr to destroy, if it ever came to that. Empty as those threats and promises were, it had felt good to have them said.
In truth, the Æsir were brutal, calculating creatures, and Loki had killed too many of them over the centuries. If this was the penance Loki had to pay, so be it. There could be no more bloodshed. Loki would not allow it.
If I have to be the last casualty of this godforsaken war, so be it. If by my sacrifice, my bearer’s debts shall be paid in full, let everything be taken from me.
Loki grasped the threads and held on tight, weaving seiðr into a small orb of gossamer and light. Blew it into the ocean, and hoped it would be enough to guide the souls of fallen Jötnar into the ice once more. Did this again and again, for hours, working the weaving with hands still clumsy and unused to seiðr of this nature. Even the merest Jötun child knew how to craft light from seiðr. Loki had grown up learning how to freeze blood and cut throats.
Eventually, Fenrir nudged into Loki’s side, growling out a soft reminder. Loki, swaying now with the pulse of Jötunheim’s seiðr, blinked back into focus. Helblindi still waited.
—
Jötunheim - within the Valaisin, the House of Light
Loki had not entered the rooms of the Scion of Jotunheim since the day Laufey passed. While Jötunheim faltered and tried to find its bearings at the loss, Laufey had been moved from those rooms and into the depths of the palace, body encased in ice until the Bracing came. Only then, when the winds were wild and the waters flourishing, did the Jötnar consider it proper to lay their dead to rest.
But Laufey’s body had never made it to the ice; in the end it had been decided that there would be no rest for the one who had led Jotunheim into war and ruin. With no chances to make amends, Laufey had been burned in a pyre, soul left to wander forever.
Loki would make sure it found rest.
Loki's heart ached to see Helblindi standing at the window their bearer had often stood by, staring down at the same courtyard they had played in as children. The same courtyard that Helblindi’s children would not play in, not for some time. After the loss of Nal, Loki knew Helblindi could not have entered into another marriage so soon, and certainly not one for politics.
“You look so much like our bearer,” Loki said, finally stepping into the room.
Helblindi turned, hands clasped around something that glinted in the sunlight. The line of the valtias had lived in the Valaisin since the days of Ymir, when the seiðr-weavers first created ice out of sunlight, and salt, and wind, and seiðr. Even now, the ice caught and held that light, such that the Valaisin was soaked in perpetual dawn.
Loki paid obeisance, neck bared for the Scion of Jötunheim, and Helblindi responded by laying a hand on Loki’s throat, a gentle pressure. When Loki stepped backward, Helbindi let the hand fall. Only a Scion of Jötunheim had ever been allowed to lay a claim on Loki: first their bearer, and now Helblindi. Helblindi wondered if the Odinson would ever be given the honor.
“You are a liar,” Helblindi said.
Loki shrugged. “I am that, yes.”
Helblindi offered a rueful smile. “You always were our bearer’s splitting image,” Helblindi said.
“Indeed. Laufey made miniature,” Loki quipped.
Still, though Helblindi took after Laufey in stature, the truth was evident: Loki was the splitting image of their bearer. Laufey had been different in many ways to the ancestors, to all of Jötunheim’s past rulers. Had unified Jötunheim’s disparate tribes and ushered in a new age by employing a mixture of craftiness and ruthlessness that had been so foreign to the Jötnar.
But Laufey’s greed and intransigence was paid for by the blood of Jötunheim, its people drawn into a war that had spanned a full millennia. Laufey’s death had come almost as a relief. It was just as well that Loki would likely never take the throne: the likeness between child and bearer ran too deeply for Jötunheim’s comfort.
Helblindi, though, was truly beloved: honest and blunt and noble. Properly Jötun, Byleistr liked to say.
“Our bearer would have wanted you to have this,” Helblindi said, holding out the object without further fanfare. Something in Loki’s chest twisted. It had been almost a full cycle since Laufey had passed, and Loki still found it hard to breathe past the pain of it.
“I—I cannot accept it.” Everything that Laufey owned should have been returned to the ocean, or else sold, the coin distributed to those affected by the war. The only things Loki had kept were the books, and even those were given to the library.
“Take it, please, Loki,” Helblindi said, almost unsteadily, and Loki’s slack resistance crumbled entirely.
Loki drew closer, and recognized the object: it was a simple golden band that had adorned Laufey’s wrist. On Loki, it would have to be an arm band. Suddenly paralyzed, Loki struggled to take hold of the band, hefting it like an impossible weight. The thrum of Laufey’s seiðr was shockingly familiar. It was so similar to Loki’s own.
Seiðr honed in war had a certain quality to it: grit and blood, forced into a working it was not accustomed to, but soon greedily craved. Loki’s thumb traced the markings etched into the band: runes for withstanding pain, for accepting blood and channeling its potency...yes, Loki knew Laufey’s seiðr very well. And Helblindi wanted Loki to wear this and take it to Asgard. A last resort that Loki hoped to never have to use.
“I wish there were another way,” Helblindi said, when the silence began to stretch. Loki looked up from the band as if suddenly remembering that Helblindi was there.
“Thank you,” Loki said, a beat too late. Helblindi’s brow furrowed.
“Loki, the sacrifices you have made for Jötunheim…”
“Are sacrifices that you have made many times over,” Loki said.
“Marriage will not kill me,” Loki continued, before Helblindi could speak, treading the familiar path down a discussion they’d had a dozen times. “It is not a terrible way to secure peace. If we could only send Byleistr to secure a similar treaty with the Eldjötnar, so many of our problems would be solved.”
“You deserve happiness,” Helblindi said, blunt with it. When Loki did not respond, Helblindi reached out to trace the kin lines on Loki’s forehead, fingers light and gentle, always so careful. As if Loki were made of seashells instead of the ice of Jötunheim.
“We can still call it off, change the terms of the treaty. Frigga is less stubborn than Odin—”
“Helblindi,” Loki cut in, pressing up into Helblindi’s fingers. Eyes fluttering closed, heart steeling against the pain.
Laufey’s third child had been born a century into the war, a tiny, quiet thing. Laufey had loved Loki no less for it, for the seiðr that shaped the realm had shaped the child, and there was only happiness and joy in that. But even the god-ruler of Jötunheim had been afraid to hold that seemingly-fragile body.
Loki had grown up in Helblindi’s arms, sharing touch, as all Jötnar did, but had shied away as the centuries passed. Could not bear the way that kith and kin shared skin and emotion and pain so easily. And there had been so much pain.
The war was over. The war was over, and that was why Loki was doing this.
“You are my kin and my sovereign,” Loki said, voice careful not to shake, swallowing past the ache. “If this is what you feel is best for our people, I will see it through.”
Helblindi stood taller than even Byleistr, but somehow managed to never look down at Loki. It was a feat their bearer had never quite managed.
But Helblindi now knelt slowly before Loki, letting their eyes meet: an acknowledgement that they were kin, not subject and ruler. For a moment, Loki feared Helblindi would offer again. It was easy to obey the command of a sovereign, and painfully difficult to reject the plea of an eldsibb.
Instead, Helblindi took the band and slid it snug around Loki’s arm. Laufey’s seiðr thrummed, in harmony with Loki’s own.
“I wish I could send you off with more than a trinket and a blessing,” Helblindi said, voice so low it rumbled.
There were many things Helblindi wished: that they had been able to secure a better treaty, that Loki would not have to endure a union with one of their people’s greatest enemies. But the war had broken Jotunheim down through the centuries, and there were ever-growing whispers that the Eldjötnar were mustering up their armies once more. That Asgard had agreed so readily to the treaty and the marriage still set the Jotnar on edge.
Loki found it even stranger that the Odinson had accepted their terms. Odin would not sleep forever. Hostility, at the very least, seemed inevitable. Loki was prepared to meet brutality.
“I thank you for your blessing, and for the blessing of our people,” Loki said, and reached out to place steady hands on the kin lines on Helblindi’s brow.
Ymir guide you, Helblindi thought, sending up a prayer to the ancestors.
“Who knows,” Loki said, at last when they pulled away, flashing Helblindi that well-loved quicksilver grin (so much like their bearer), “It might even be fun.”
Helblindi laughed, and was glad for it. “Try not to be sent home with a declaration of war before the Meltwater, Loki.”
“I can make no promises,” said Loki.
--
II. Seasons
Autumn
Thor emerged from a morning filled with meetings, arms piled high with scrolls and papers, ready to escape to the barracks for the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, his mother’s unimpressed scowl had frozen him at the doorway of the council chamber.
Sif shouldered past him, whispering a word of luck. With a sinking feeling, Thor wondered how long it had been since he had seen Loki. Had he seen the Jötun at all since the handfasting? How many days had it been? A headache began to bloom at Thor’s temples.
“It has been three days since your handfasting,” Frigga said, as Thor foisted off his load to a waiting squire.
“You cannot avoid Loki forever,” Frigga continued, sounding downright icy, and Thor fought not to cringe. He had been busy, it was a valid excuse.
“Would that I could,” Thor said under his breath, and almost lost his grip on the new trade treaty with Vanaheim when Frigga smacked his arm.
“Go,” Frigga ordered, then turned to the squire to lament further, “Can you believe this? My own son…”
And so Thor, shamed by his own mother, found himself sneaking like a ghost through his own home, unwilling to tell anyone he’d lost track of his own betrothed—or, worse, that he’d let a Jötun loose in Iðavǫllr.
Those who resided within and around the palace liked to believe themselves worldly and progressive, and had purported to take the treaty and the handfasting in stride. In truth, the people of Iðavǫllr generally regarded Loki with a mixture of fear, disgust, and admiration.
The fear and disgust, Thor could understand. Stories and songs of the cruel deeds of Loki Laufeysbairn ran far and wide throughout the city-state. The admiration, on the other hand…well, Thor had never been able to meet Loki head-on in the battlefield, but it was a worthy accomplishment to have fought the Jotun and lived through it. General Tyr had lost a hand for the honor, and Sif still wore her hair short and dark as the day Loki had shorn it.
Thor, for his part, was three days betrothed to Loki, and had yet to confirm any of the rumors regarding a possibly-literal silver tongue, or a penchant for conjuring snakes in the bedroom. One thing that he could confirm, however, was that Loki was very good at hiding. In fact, after an entire afternoon of searching, Thor began to have the creeping suspicion that Loki had vanished from the palace entirely.
Dejected and thoroughly annoyed, Thor rounded the corner, and negated his previous theory by almost bumping right into his betrothed.
Instead of an impact with another body, however, Thor found himself pressed against the wall with a blade right at his throat. Blue eyes met red. Mjolnir dropped from Thor’s belt to his hand. A split second later, Loki was skittering away, dagger dissolving into nothing.
Thor rubbed at his throat, heart thudding in his chest, but that soon made way to a roaring anger.
“What do you think you’re playing at, Jötun,” Thor growled. His hands flexed around Mjolnir in readiness.
Loki spun around, and Thor’s hair stood on end as the temperature of the air around them suddenly dropped.
“What am I playing at? What sort of godforsaken labyrinth have you trapped me in you—you coward—”
“Do not test me—labyrinth? What are you talking about?” Thor demanded, looking around them. This was just another one of Iðavǫllr’s seldom-used halls. Perhaps it had once housed dignitaries from Svartalfheim once, when Asgard still had good relations with the Dark Elves.
Loki hissed out a breath, pacing in front of Thor like a cornered panther. If Thor didn’t know any better, he would say that Loki looked exhausted, shoulders closed in, fingers flexing nervously. Almost as if Loki hadn’t rested in—three days.
Thor could have smacked himself in the head with his own hammer for his stupidity.
With a measure of patience that Thor was sure would have made Frigga proud, he slowly lifted both hands into the air to show Loki he meant no harm.
The Jötun only reared back at the sight of Mjolnir, and those daggers appeared once again. Cautiously, Thor set Mjolnir on the ground between them, and stepped away.
Loki’s eyes warily tracked the distance between Mjolnir and Thor, and found it satisfactory. The blades melted away once more.
Thor slowly sat himself on the ground. Loki, across from him, followed suit.
For a while neither of them spoke, unwilling to breach the tension. The air around them had gone cold, and it was not the chill of autumn that Thor was accustomed to.
And then Loki said, “I suppose you haven’t come to kill me after all.”
“No, of course not,” Thor said, too incredulous to even be angry.
“Foolish of you,” Loki said.
“We are betrothed,” Thor said.
“Never stopped the Æsir before,” Loki said. Thor sat up straighter. His huff of realization was almost visible in the cold air. These halls hadn’t housed dignitaries from Svartalfheim, no. No, these halls had been made specifically with a Jötun in mind, spelled to a adjust to a Jotun physiology.
The last Jötun to have stepped into Iðavǫllr before Loki, had been Bestla, who had borne Odin, the All-Father. Bestla, who had been found dead in these halls a millennia ago. Asgard had held a funeral, and washed its hands of the whole affair. Jotunheim had taken it as an insult. The rising hostilities between the realms had broken out into war not long after that.
For Loki, new to the realm and surrounded by old enemies, walking into these halls, accidentally or not, must have been unpleasant, to say the least. Thor could not find fault in the Jotun’s skittishness.
“I am not here to kill you,” Thor said firmly, “Nor to harm you in any way. Though I do wonder why you agreed to the treaty if you thought you would meet your death here.”
Loki shrugged. “We signed the treaty in Hel itself. No war is to come to our realms after we are wed. I did not think it would be difficult to survive until then.”
“You thought to sacrifice yourself,” Thor said.
“No,” Loki scoffed. “Nothing so noble as that. I only wished to pay a debt.”
After a moment’s consideration, Thor pushed himself to his feet and dusted his trousers.
“Any debt you owe shall be paid, Loki Laufeysbairn, without need for your death. As your betrothed, I swore to bear your burdens, did I not?”
Loki blinked up at him, looking genuinely taken aback.
Thor extended a hand, waiting.
After a moment, Loki took it, and stood up.
And then immediately stumbled and sagged against Thor’s side.
“Have you slept at all?” Thor demanded, steadying Loki with one hand, hefting Mjonir with the other.
“And risk waking up to a knife in my back?” Loki replied, sounding not unlike a hissy cat.
Thor was relieved to learn that Loki’s skin was cool, but not cold. Not even as cold as Thor’s feet could get on long winter nights. Carefully, Thor slid an arm around Loki’s waist. Loki stiffened at the touch.
“In the songs, they speak of you with such awe,” Thor said. “Please do not tell me you have been lost in the palace these past three days.”
“I will not tell you then,” Loki sniffed, “that your halls are poorly-crafted and badly-designed.”
“Oh?” Thor said, guiding Loki through a series of halls. They met no one on their way out of Bestla’s rooms. When they reached more familiar ground, Loki made a small noise of triumph and pulled away, but left a hand on Thor’s arm. They maintained a measure of closeness proper for the newly betrothed.
“My grandfather had this palace built to stabilize his rule. Iðavǫllr—it means splendor-plains. It used to be a horse pasture.”
“You should have left it to the horses,” Loki said, but there seemed to be no bite to it.
Thor did not shy away from the gazes of the guards and servants they passed by. Each one dropped their head in a slight bow, which seemed to confuse Loki. Thor made a note to ask about it later.
“Tell me about your home,” Thor said, half asking to be polite, half driven by curiosity.
Loki glanced at Thor askance, slowing them both down. A servant hurried past, eyes widening at the sight of Loki, and offering a stuttering bow to the both of them.
“I forget you were not in Jotunheim for the war,” Loki murmured.
“No,” Thor said evenly.
Loki looked away. They began to move forward again.
Slowly, Loki started, “In the days of Ymir, the first seiðr-weavers crafted the ice of Jotunheim…”
(From up a high window, a raven cocked its ear and listened to the conversation:
“Crafted the ice?”
“Well, of course. Where did you think it came from?”
“I’d assumed it was always there.”
“How absurd. Any Jotun child knows that it was woven, as are all things, from seiðr and salt and sunlight…”
“Oh, of course. So it is true that all Jotnar spring fully-formed from the snow?”
“Am I telling this story, or are you?”
“You are.”
“Good. Now, hush.”)
—
That night, Thor paid a visit to his father.
In true sleep, people twitched and dreamt. In the Odinsleep, the King of Asgard was motionless, as if suspended in a moment in time. Thor resisted the urge to reach out and smooth down Odin’s blankets, a nervous habit he’d developed at his father’s bedside.
Sif stepped up to him, whisper-quiet. As strange as it was to meet with her at Odin’s bedside, it was one of the few places in the palace where they were afforded complete privacy. Thor and Sif had decided long ago that they were much better off as friends than lovers, but Iðavǫllr did so love to gossip.
“The guards were all a-flutter with rumors today,” Sif said. “It seems that your betrothed has made himself known, finally.”
Thor sighed and told Sif about what had happened that afternoon.
She frowned. “Lost? For three days? And he ended up in Bestla’s halls?”
“Hiding, more likely. Do you find it suspicious?” Thor asked.
“Loki has many enemies in Asgard,” Sif said, thoughtfully. “I would not be able to rest easy in a palace full of Jotnar myself.”
Thor hummed in agreement. “He has no reason to break the treaty. The Jotnar do not seem to want war any more than we do. It is only…he said he had a debt to settle.
“I took it to mean he had a debt to his realm, one he would pay for with our union, but I fear…”
“What if someone comes after him here, in Asgard, looking for payment?” Sif finished.
“Asgard cannot be drawn into another war,” Thor said grimly. “If the Dark Elves grow any bolder, we must be ready. Already, we spread ourselves too thin along their borders.”
Sif nodded. “I will speak to Heimdall, and tighten the palace security. And I’ll instruct the head attendants to be wary and send reports. We can employ more spies. Though, the ravens have been circling close since your handfasting.”
“Thank you, Sif,” Thor said. “For everything. Always. Truthfully…I wish to believe that Loki means no ill will, but I do not know him well. Or at all.”
“The Jotnar are not a war-like race, as you know,” Sif said. “The war lasted for so long because Jotunheim is a harsh realm for us. Because what warriors they did have were utterly merciless. But there were warriors, and then there was Loki. The Jotnar seem to consider him as strange as we do.”
“If your estimation of him is that he is strange,” Thor started and grunted when Sif elbowed him, hard. Scuffling in front of Odin, as they had as children.
“My estimation of him is that he is lonely, Thor. And that he is tired of war. As are we all.”
Thor rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.
“I know this union is difficult,” Sif said. “You know you have Asgard’s support.”
“It is not so difficult,” Thor said. “Certainly not more difficult than war.” He gave an apologetic smile. “And…I know it is useless to say this, but I wish Balder were here.”
Sif drew closer and laid a hand on Thor’s arm. “Thor…he would have teased you mercilessly for the marriage.”
“He would have had to enter the marriage,” Thor pointed out. “And perhaps he would have been better at it than I am. You know I have little interest or skill in politics.”
“And yet Asgard still stands,” Sif said firmly. “You give yourself too little credit, my Prince. How many times have you told me that you feel as if you have never quite fit the roles you were meant to fill? Maybe this time will be different.”
Thor thought of the cold, of Balder’s shaking hands, of Loki’s blue skin. Of the home Loki had spoken of, spun in sunlight and seiðr.
“I go to Jotunheim in four months,” Thor said. “We shall see then.”
—
Sif had done good on her word. Over the next few days, Thor received a number of ravens with messages about Loki, all of them strange and confusing. It seemed that, while Loki still managed to evade Thor completely—the door was always spelled shut whenever Thor attempted to visit—everyone else in the palace had caught the Jotun in some form of mischief.
From the kitchens: Loki had rifled through the cupboards, somehow without anyone noticing, and sampled every cake and pudding laid out for the midday meal. A trail of sugar and ants from the kitchen ended neatly at Loki’s door, which was beside Thor’s.
Thor recalled how, that morning, he had stepped into a puddle of syrup outside his door, and moved on to the next letter.
From the library: The Jotun seemed to take particular pleasure in terrorizing the patrons of the library by clambering atop bookshelves and making nests of books. Nests! It had to stop! Loki also did not seem to understand the concept of paper, the steward lamented. Entire books had been ripped apart!
The man had always tended towards exaggeration, Thor thought, and sighed, and read the next letter.
From the tailors: If Prince Thor could kindly explain to his betrothed that buttons are meant to stay on clothes, and not torn out of their tunics and trousers, the menders would greatly appreciate it. P.S. Perhaps Prince Thor could also explain to his betrothed the purpose of trousers.
There were four more letters; he could already guess their contents. It had only been a week since the handfasting.
Thor had just set the letters aside, determined to confront Loki about them later, when a young guard, pale and shaken, burst into Odin’s study.
“My Lord Thor—” the guard started, then stopped, as if pausing to gather his thoughts.
Thor raised an eyebrow. “Out with it,” he said, impatiently.
“My Prince, the Jotun—the Queen’s Gardens—”
Thor stood up in alarm.
Loki was bound by the treaty and betrothal with Thor to not kill, viciously maim, or otherwise bring harm to any Aesir. Though Loki had already demonstrated a propensity towards causing mischief, Thor had not realized the Jotun would be so brazen as to launch an attack from inside the palace, and in such a conspicuous place.
He was shocked by the force of his own disappointment. A thousand years of war and enmity would not be solved by something like marriage, though Thor had tried his best to be optimistic.
He ignored how the thought of hurting Loki made his stomach turn.
“Send for Lady Eir and tell the palace healers to get ready receive patients,” Thor ground out, extending his hand for Mjolnir to smack into his palm.
Only to almost drop her when the guard shook his head and said, with no small amount of confusion, “He’s stripped the trees entirely of their leaves, my lord.”
—