The Musings of Kit

Growing up, you’ve always pictured your wedding day as this grand, romantic thing. You’d have the perfect dress, the perfect flowers, the perfect everything. You'd walk down a petal-strewn aisle toward the love of your life, your heart doing a little fluttery dance. Maybe your dad would get teary-eyed. Maybe your mom would be proud for once in her life. You would be happy.

Yet here you sit, Grima and your mother fussing with the pins in your hair, and all you can feel is this cold, heavy dread.

“There,” your mother says, giving a final, sharp tug that makes you wince. “It’s adequate.”

You stare at your reflection. The woman staring back is a stranger. Sunken eyes, a dress of bright blue that clings to your torso before flaring out at the waist, and a silver circlet embedded with dark opals that feels more like a crown of thorns than anything else. You look like a princess, but you feel like a sacrifice.

“It’s beautiful, my lady,” Grima says softly. Her smile is genuine, which is the only thing keeping you from shattering into a million pieces. “His Highness will be speechless.”

One of them certainly will be, your brain supplies unhelpfully. And not the one she’s talking about.

Loki has not shown his face since his confession last night. You had stayed in the garden until your skin was chilled and your heart was raw, before sneaking back to your chambers and crying yourself into an exhausted sleep. Now, with the sun already climbing high into the sky, there is still no sign of him. The ceremony is at midday.

A knock sounds at the door. Your mother straightens, her expression hardening into one of habitual regal disapproval.

“Enter.”

A guard pokes his head in. “Apologies—”

“Out with it,” your mother snaps. She has always been a woman of little patience, and today even less so. “We are on a schedule.”

The guard swallows nervously. “The allmother has requested the princess’ presence in her chambers.”

Your mother’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. “Of course.” She turns to you, her hands resting on your shoulders in a gesture that almost feels maternal. Almost. “Come. We mustn't keep her waiting.”

She makes to move, but the guard hesitates. “Apologies, my lady, but Her Majesty specifically requested the princess come alone.”

You immediately feel a surge of something you can't quite name. You didn’t always feel so fearful of Odin’s wife. As a child, you had a strange fondness for the queen, for the quiet way she watched over things, for the way her hands always seemed to know just how to soothe a scraped knee or a feverish brow. But now, since you and Loki had been playing this treacherous game, every interaction with the Asgardian royal family is filled with paranoia.

“Very well,” your mother says, giving you a look that’s a mixture of ‘don't you dare mess this up’ and ‘good luck.’ “We have preparations to finish anyway.”

Yo are led from your chambers by the guard, down familiar gilded hallways that suddenly feel like a cage. The guards outside the queen’s chambers bow as you approach, and one opens the heavy oak door for you.

Frigga is standing by the window, her back to you, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of the palace. She’s wearing agown of blue, her golden hair braided intricately. She looks every inch the queen.

“You sent for me, Your Majesty?” you ask, your voice sounding small and thin in the vast, quiet room.

She turns, and her smile is kind, but her eyes hold a strange, knowing light. “My dear girl. Come. Sit with me.”

She gestures to a small, plush sofa near the fireplace. You do as she asks, the hue of your gown a stark, vibrant slash against the muted tones of the room.

“Today is a big day,” she says, settling into a chair opposite you. “You must be very nervous.”

You nod, not trusting your own voice. You fidget with a loose thread on the sofa. There’s a lump in your throat that won't go down.

You wonder if she knows. You wonder if her husband knows. You wonder if anyone knows how close you came to throwing it all away last night.

Because, oh, how you had wanted to. You didn’t understand until Loki put the choice in front of you, but the desire to stay was a palpable thing. A longing that had been buried under layers of duty and fear and resignation, but was now clawing its way to the surface. And what could you do but deny it?

“I was nervous on my wedding day, too,” Frigga continues, her gaze unwavering. “Terrified, in fact. Marrying Odin was the most significant thing I would ever do. It would define my life, my legacy. There is a certain… weight to that, isn't there?”

“Yes,” you whisper, finally finding your words. “A great weight.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling she’s peeling back your skin and looking right into your soul. It’s a different kind of perception than Loki’s. His is a sharp, clever thing. Frigga’s is a soft, enveloping warmth, a river that wears you down until you have no choice but to let it flow. And right now, you are afraid you might drown in it.

“You have been a good friend to my son. To both of my sons,” she says, and there’s no accusation in her tone. “Thor, for all his… Thor-ness, can be a bit boisterous. He doesn't always see the quiet things. But you do. You see Loki.”

You freeze, every muscle in your body tensing. There is that feeling again, as if you were a child caught with your hand in the cookie jar. But you school your features into a mask of calm, even as your heart starts to pound against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“He’s my friend,” you manage to say, your voice barely audible. “Of course I see him.”

She smiles, a slow, gentle curve of her lips. “Of course.” She leans forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “And because you see him, surely you must understand that Loki… he does not always react to things in the way one might expect.”

You say nothing, because what can you possibly say to that?

I know he’s a trickster? I know he has a temper? I know he whispered words in a garden that could cost my realm its alliance with Asgard?

“The two of you. Always bickering, always at odds,” she muses, almost to herself. “You know, when you were younger, he used to practice a particular illusion. A very simple one. He would make a rose appear in the palm of his hand. He would practice for hours, trying to get the color just right, the petals just so. And whenever he felt he thought he had perfected it, who do you think he would show it to?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t want to hear this. You can’t hear this.

“He would show it to Thor, of course,” she continues. “And Thor would clap him on the back before running off to do something more… heroic. He would show it to me, and I would smile and tell him it was lovely. But he was never satisfied with our reactions. He wanted more.”

She pauses, and the silence in the room is a heavy thing.

“Then one day, he showed it to you.” She is watching you so intently now, it’s as if she’s trying to will the memory into your head. “You were assisting me with my tapestry in the gardens. He came up to you, that same illusion in his palm. And you didn’t just say it was ‘lovely.’ You told him the petals were too symmetrical. That a real rose has imperfections. You told him the color was too vibrant. That it looked… fake.”

You remember. The memory, long buried under years of complicated feelings, resurfaces with a painful clarity. You had been full of a child’s blunt honesty, with none of the carefully curated diplomacy you now possess.

“He didn't speak to you for a week after that,” Frigga chuckles, amusement in her tone. You definitely remember that. “But the illusion he showed me the next week… it was the most perfect, most convincing illusion I had ever seen. Every petal was unique, every color was muted.”

“It looked real,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

You had noticed. He’d come up to you again, and without a word, held out his hand. And the rose had been perfect. The scent of it had even seemed real. And you had just nodded at him, and he had nodded back, and that was that. It was also after that he began to get a little too cocky with his illusions. Not long after that was the first he'd tried to make you believe a serpent was in your bed. You'd screamed so loud the entire wing of the palace had heard you. To this day, you have never forgiven him for that.

“He has always valued your opinion.” Her voice pulls you back to the present. “Far more than he would ever admit. It is why he goads you so.”

You don’t know why she’s telling you this. It feels like a warning and a kindness all at once, a beautifully wrapped dagger pressed into your palm. Your hands are trembling in your lap, and you have to clasp them together to keep her from noticing.

“Your Majesty,” you begin, your voice strained. “What is the purpose of this conversation?”

Please, Gods, let it just be a mother’s fond reminiscing. Let it be a last-minute attempt at comfort before the wedding. Let it be anything but what you fear it is.

She doesn't answer your question. Instead, she rises from her chair and walks to a small, ornate chest in the corner of the room. She opens it and pulls out a leather-bound book. It’s large, with no title on its cover. She brings it over to you and places it in your lap.

“What is this?” you ask, your fingers tracing the worn leather. It’s surprisingly heavy.

“A record of seidr,” she says simply. “Basic spells. Illusions, healing, minor conjurations. Things I believe you have a natural aptitude for.”

You stare at her, dumbfounded. “Me? But I… I have no magic. My realm—”

“Is full of it,” she finishes gently. “Your people simply use it differently. You weave it into your textiles, into your songs, into the very structure of your homes. You just don’t call it by that name.”

You open the book. The pages are filled with elegant, looping script and intricate diagrams. You can’t read a word of it, but there’s a strange pull to it. You feel a hum of energy that vibrates through your fingertips.

“I do not understand,” you say, your head starting to spin. “Why are you giving this to me? On my wedding day?”

Frigga kneels before you, her hands covering yours on the book. Her touch is warm, and for a second, the heavy dread in your chest lifts.

She doesn’t seem angry. Perhaps she knows not about Loki’s plea in the garden. Perhaps she has no idea how close you were to choosing him. She’s just… kind. And you don't know what to do with that.

“Because I am your queen,” she says, her voice firm. “And my duty is to protect my realm and its alliances. My son is to be your husband. He is a good man, but he is… focused. He sees the grand tapestry, but not always the threads. You see the threads. This,” she taps the book, “will help you mend them when they fray.”

Her words are a riddle, and you’re too exhausted to solve it. “Thank you,” you say, because it seems like the right thing to say. “I will treasure it.” And you mean it. In a life full of things you didn’t ask for, this book, this gesture of faith from the most powerful woman in the Nine Realms, feels like a bright spot.

“There may come a day,” Frigga softly speaks, “when you find yourself with no counsel but your own. If that day should arrive, I would rather you possess knowledge than fear.” She stands and smooths down her skirts. “Now, off with you. I’m sure you have much to do.”

You get up, the heavy book clutched to your chest like a shield, and give a curt bow before walking to the door. However, before you think to leave, you hesitate, your back to her. You need to know.

“Your Majesty,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Did Loki… did he say anything to you last night?”

There is a long silence, and you can feel her gaze on your back.

“Loki and I often speak late into the night. He is my son. Why do you ask?”

You shake your head, unable to turn around. “No reason. Just… a silly concern.”

“He is a prince of Asgard. He will do his duty, as will you. But duty does not have to be a cage, my dear. Sometimes, it is a key. You just have to find the right lock.” She doesn't confirm nor deny, only gives you a piece of her own kind of cryptic wisdom. “Go on. Don’t keep your mother waiting.”

She may not be Loki’s blood, but she is as adept at weaving words as he is. You find it almost hard to believe the two of them aren't actually related.

With a final, curt nod, you leave.

***

The walls are closing in, the dress feels like a shroud, and the book of spells is a heavy weight in your lap. You’ve read — or rather, looked at — the same page three times. It makes no sense. The symbols are like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You feel a strange sense of loss, that a gift with such potential is completely out of your reach.

A bit like your life.

The guards outside your door stand like statues. You’re a prisoner in your own chambers, and your sentence is about to be carried out. Every tick of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece is a hammer blow against your heart.

Midday is drawing near, and still no Loki.

You keep replaying Frigga’s words in your mind.

Duty does not have to be a cage. Sometimes, it is a key.

It’s a pretty thought, but you can't make it fit. Your duty is to Thor. To Alfheim. To the alliance. Loki is the opposite of your duty. He is the locked door you’re not supposed to open, and you doubt the queen was encouraging you to pick the lock to that particular room.

And yet, she gave you the book.

Why? Was it a test? A message? Or just a mother’s quiet attempt to give you a sliver of power in a powerless situation?

You have this aching suspicion that she knows. Not the specifics, perhaps, but the shape of the thing. If Thor of all peoplesaw what was between you, the woman who raised the God of Mischief must have some inkling. And instead of forbidding it, she armed you. The thought is more terrifying than comforting.

You rise from the sofa, needing to move. You pace the length of the room, the silk of your dress whispering against the stone floor. You stop at the window, looking down at the grounds. Thousands if not tens of thousands of your own people have gathered. You see their brightly colored clothes, a stark contrast to the muted earth tones of Asgard. They are here to see their princess marry a god. They are here for the celebration. They don’t see the fear. They don't see the cage. They only see hope for a better future.

You wonder if Thor is watching from some high balcony. You wonder if he feels as sick as you do.

A wave of vertigo hits you, and you grip the windowsill to steady yourself.

This is it. This is the rest of your life. You will live here, in this golden palace, as the wife of a man whoms brother you love.

Would it be possible for you to live such a life?

Could you stand in a court and watch Loki whisper secrets in another’s ear? Could you share a table with him and your husband and pretend your heart wasn’t being carved from your chest, piece by painful piece? Could you bear children with Thor and look at them, knowing that every single one of them is a symbol of a choice you made out of fear?

You close your eyes, willing the tears away for what feels like the thousandth time.

When you open your eyes, your gaze lands on the little elven children running among the crowd, their clothes no longer the rags they wore the day of the wedding announcement. They are dressed in fine fabrics, their hair clean and neatly braided. They are laughing.

You did that. Your sacrifice is already giving them something better. You cannot forget that.

In that instant, a resolve hardens within you. You were not raised to be a selfish woman. You were not raised to follow your heart. You were raised to lead and to protect your people, no matter the cost to yourself. It is a cold comfort, but it is a comfort nonetheless.

You are a princess of Alfheim, and you will do your duty. You will stand before the Allfather and you will say the words. You will take Thor’s hand and you will smile. And you will learn to be happy with it, or you will learn to be a very good actress.

But the thought still does not bring you any semblance of peace. That’s when you know, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that the ache for Loki will not simply go away.

Damn the orders to not leave your chambers. You need fresh air. You know this place like the back of your hand, you know a servant's corridor that'll lead you to a secluded balcony, and with the wedding chaos it's unlikely you'll run into anyone.

You quell the hope in your heart that he might be there. It is too dangerous a hope to have. You are simply going to calm your nerves before the ceremony. That is all.

You slip out of your chambers, giving the guards a dismissive wave of your hand as if you have every right to be leaving. To your surprise, they don't question you, merely bowing their heads as you pass. Perhaps your status as the future queen is already granting you some small freedoms.

You navigate the familiar corridors with a practiced ease, your feet knowing the way even when your mind is a mess of static. The servant's passage is empty, as you expected, and you push open the heavy wooden door at the end of it. And—

“I don’t want to hear a lecture on being out of my rooms. I just needed—"

“Oh my gods!” You shriek, quickly turning away as your eyes land on the one person you definitely were not expecting to run into.

“I didn’t see, I swear!” Thor’s familiar, deep voice says, sounding as shocked as you are. You hear a rustle from behind you, and you don’t have to look to know he is also turning his back. “… did you?”

It was an old custom that extended from realm to realm — a bride and groom were not to see each other on the day of the wedding, lest they bring about bad luck. Though a silly superstition, you didn’t want to tempt fate. Not that things could get any worse.

"No! I mean, I didn't look properly! Just your back," you stammer, face burning with embarrassment. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be preparing?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he shoots back. "I came to think. This seemed a good a place as any. What's your excuse?"

"Same as you."

An awkward silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the crowds and the frantic beating of your own heart. This isn't how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to be full of romantic anticipation, and he's supposed to be… well, not standing with you on a secluded balcony, possibly struggling with the same things as you.

You risk a glance over your shoulder, careful to keep your eyes trained on the floor. From what you can see he in his ceremonial armor, the polished gold gleaming in the sunlight. He looks every bit the hero, the god, the prince. He looks like the future king of Asgard.

"You're wearing your armor," you say, stating the obvious as you try to break the tension.

“Hey! You said you didn’t see!”

“I didn’t see your face,” you retort, feeling a spark of your old self rise to the surface. “I do have peripheral vision.”

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that feels surprisingly genuine. “Fair enough. You are wearing your dress.” He pauses, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head. “It’s… a very blue dress.”

“It is,” you agree, a small smile touching your lips. “it’s the color of royalty in my realm. My mother chose it. She called it ‘acceptable.’”

“She’s a hard woman to please.”

“She has to be,” you reply. “Our realm isn't as prosperous as Asgard. A single mistake could cost us everything.”

“Yes… I know,” he sympathizes.

A beat, and then,

"Thor..” your voice is barely a whisper. "Are you scared?"

He is silent for so long that you think he isn't going to answer. Then, he sighs, a weary sound.

"Terrified," he admits, and the vulnerability in his voice is so raw, it catches you off guard. "I've fought monsters. I've battled giants. I've seen the birth of stars. But this… this is different. This is… forever."

Forever.

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.

"I'm terrified too," you confess. It's the truth, and it's a relief to finally say it out loud.

You finally turn fully around, keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. The golden spires of Asgard glitter in the sun, a breathtaking sight that does nothing to calm your nerves.

He's still facing away from you, a mountain of a man with shoulders that seem to carry the weight of the Nine Realms.

"My brother came to see me this morning.”

The casual way he mentions Loki sends a jolt through you.

You try to keep your voice steady.

“Oh?”

"He told me I was a fool," Thor continues, a wry humor in his tone. "He told me I was trading a lifetime of freedom for a lifetime of… well, you."

You flinch, a sharp pain lancing through your chest. "That sounds like him."

"He also told me that you were the most intelligent, infuriating, and stubborn woman he had ever met.” Thor’s voice drops, becoming more serious. “And that if I hurt you, he would personally see to it that my entrails were used to decorate the great hall.”

Despite the gruesome image, a hysterical bubble of laughter escapes your lips.

“He’s protective of you,” he acknowledges, but it sounds like the words of a man that has known it for years. It sounds like you are the last one to know.

You nod, the motion feeling almost automatic. You have no idea what to say. It feels as though every path your conversation can take is leading you someplace you can't bear to go.

"What do you want me to say to that?" you ask, unable to keep the bite from your tone. Your nerves are frayed. Your heart is raw. You feel like you're on the edge of a knife.

"Nothing," he says, a gentle reassurance. "I just want you to know that I don't plan on hurting you. Not intentionally."

Your throat constricts with emotion. He is not saying anything you didn't already know, but to hear it spoken aloud is like a balm.

He isn't Loki, but he is still your friend. The thought of spending the rest of your life with him isn't the worst fate… but it's also not the one you want.

"You are not a fool, Thor," you say, your voice soft. "And I am sorry if I made you feel like one."

You don’t know the extent of what he knows, or how much he understands, but he seems to accept your words as the apology they are.

“Let's just… can we just be Thor and you? For five minutes. Before we have to be them."

The prince and the princess. The symbols. The alliance.

You turn around, slowly, giving him a chance to object. He doesn't. You keep your eyes fixed on the middle of his chest plate, until you eventually build the courage to face him. His blue eyes, usually so full of bluster and confidence, are filled with a depth of emotion that you didn't know he was capable of.

You see your own fear reflected back at you.

You extend your hand. "Hi. I'm me.”

He takes your hand, dwarfing it with his own. His grip is strong, but surprisingly gentle. A God, but also a man. A good man.

"Hi," he says. "I'm me, too."

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. "You're ridiculous."

"I've been told."

He squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, a silent acknowledgment of all the things you can't say out loud.

You let go, your fingers trailing across his palm before slipping away completely.

You are both making this choice. You will both live with it and find whatever happiness you can.

But the thought keeps turning over and over in your mind.

Thor.

Your best friend.

"Have you spoken to Sif?” you blurt. "Is she..."

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You don’t even know what you’re trying to ask.

Is she okay? Is she angry? Is she hurt?

“Ay," he admits, and there's a deep sadness in his tone. "She is not angry with you, nor me. She is angry with the fates, and I cannot fault her for that.”

A fresh wave of guilt hits you, and you swallow down the lump in your throat. Your gaze drops to your feet.

He sighs, and when he speaks again, there is a forced levity in his voice. "Have you spoken to my brother?"

“Not today,” you admit, your heart clenching painfully at the question.

You want to tell him about the garden. You want to tell him how Loki looked, how he sounded, how he made you feel. Thor is your best friend, after all. But you can't. And that makes it hurt all the more.

He nods, a resigned kind of acceptance. "You know, he wont hate you,”

You shake your head, unwilling to let yourself think about it. "He already does."

He raises an eyebrow. "You truly believe that?"

"I know it."

His gaze softens, his eyes full of a gentle sympathy that you want to cling to. "Then you don't know my brother as well as I thought."

"Thor, I—"

A bell echoes throughout the palace grounds, signaling the hour. The wedding is about to begin. You feel like a noose has just been tightened around your neck.

He glances over his shoulder at the door. "We should—"

"Yes. Yes, we should," you finish.

Before anything, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He stiffens in surprise, but his arms come up around you after a moment. His embrace is comforting, and you lean into it. You are so tired of being strong. For a brief moment, you let yourself be weak.

"This doesn't change anything," you murmur into his shoulder, knowing it's not strictly the truth. But maybe you can make it true if you say it often enough. Maybe you can force it into existence. "You're still my best friend. You'll always be my best friend."

He squeezes you tightly. "And you mine."

You pull away, keeping your hands on his forearms. Your eyes meet, and there is an unspoken understanding between the two of you that neither of you wanted this.

At the very least, if you were to spend your life bound to a man who was not the one you willingly chose, you could do so with someone who felt the same way.

You take a steadying breath and step back.

“Okay, you first. I'll wait a few minutes before following. Just in case, because—"

"Our mothers would have our heads," he agrees with a small smile. "Very well."

He turns and walks through the heavy wooden door, leaving you alone on the balcony.

You take a deep breath, smoothing down your dress.

This is it. This is the rest of your life.

You close your eyes and remember Lokis face — the expression he may never wear for you again. You commit every detail to memory, even though it hurts.

You open your eyes, you straighten your shoulders, you square your jaw, and you walk back inside to get married.

***

The ceremony takes place in the great hall. It's the same hall where the Allfather announced the treaty all those years ago. However, it is unrecognizable now.

The golden pillars are adorned with garlands of flowers. The high ceiling glitters with thousands of tiny lights, like stars in the night sky. The tables and chairs are gone, replaced by rows of benches, filled with nobility from all the Nine Realms. And in the front of the room, beneath a golden canopy, stands the Allfather, regal as ever.

You walk down the aisle, your gaze fixed on Odin. If you look at the people, you might panic. If you look at Thor, you might cry. And if you look at the youngest prince, standing stoically beside the throne, you might forget what you are doing all of this for.

The heavy fabric of your dress trails behind you, the sound of it muted behind the soft violets of the court musicians. The whispers of the crowd are a low hum in your ears, but you can hear some of the comments as you pass.

"My gods, she's so beautiful!"

"She looks like a queen already."

"Do you think they'll be blessed with children soon?"

Your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. You feel like an animal on display. You have been in this palace for years, and these people still look at you as if you are some exotic curiosity.

Grima and your mother are waiting at the base of the steps to the throne. Your mother looks positively regal in her gown of white and gold. She gives you a small nod of approval, which is more than you expected and you feel a strange sort of pride that she seems pleased with you. Perhaps she'll be a little less cold after today.

She takes your arm and guides you up the stairs, into position. You stand facing Thor, your eyes fixed on his chest plate. It feels safer than looking at his face.

Odin's voice booms through the hall, echoing off the high stone walls. "We are gathered here today to witness the binding of two souls. Through this union, we will strengthen our ties to the realms, we will show our commitment to peace and prosperity, And we will ensure that the realms will stand together against any enemy that might threaten them."

His words wash over you, feeling both distant and far too close. You barely hear him recite the ancient words.

It seems only a few seconds later that Thor takes your hand, and you know it is time for the exchange of vows. You look up at him, and his gaze is fixed on yours as Odin speaks.

"Do you, Princess of Alfheim, vow to serve Asgard as their future queen? To lead with wisdom and compassion, and to protect your people until you are pardoned from your duties by either death or decree?"

Your throat feels dry. The words stick in your mouth, and for one awful moment, you think you may not be able to say them.

“I—” you begin, your voice barely audible.

Your eyes stray without meaning to, and they finally land on Loki. He is standing to Odin's right, his expression unreadable.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He is so close, yet he seems a million miles away.

There is an expectant hush in the room as everyone awaits your answer, but you cannot look away.

You see it then. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Hope.

His gaze drops to your hand, where Thor is holding it, and then back to your face. And there, in the space between heartbeats, is a question you thought you'd never see from him.

Do you want me to save you?

There is a flutter in your chest, because even after everything, he would do it. Consequences be damned.

You look out to the crowd, at the people you have fought so hard to protect. You think of your parents, and you think of Frigga, and you think of all the sacrifices they have made for their people. You think of the elven children in the marketplace, and you think of the countless lives that could be saved with the treaty.

The next person you make eye contact with is the Seer from the market. She is sitting in the front row, her eyes glittering like a serpent. And as she looks at you, she lifts her gnarled hand and holds one finger up.

"You will someday make a wise and brave queen." Her breathless whisper was her final prediction, voice cracking from age and abuse, "Though only in one of these worlds will that hold true, my lady. Choose wisely, for once you choose, you will commit."

Oh, how badly do you want to be selfish. One look and you know that Loki would conjure an illusion in a heartbeat, he would pull you down those steps and out of this hall, and he would not let go until you were both free. But clever as he may be, even he cannot outmaneuver fate.

“—I do.”

The words leave your lips before you can second guess yourself, but the crack in your voice is impossible to hide. You tear your gaze away from everyone and focus on Thor.

It isn’t until you blink that you realize tears are streaming down your face.

Everyone else would simply see a woman moved by the gravity of the moment. But Thor… Thor would see the truth. Thor would see that the tears were for his brother.

“Do you, Prince Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard, vow to stand beside the Princess of Alfheim as her husband? To honor her counsel, defend her kingdom as your own, and rule with her in wisdom until death or decree parts you?”

Silence.

His blue eyes search yours, and for a moment the crowded hall disappears. There is only the two of you, standing exactly where neither of you wishes to be.

He raises your joined hands to his lips, and kisses your knuckles. His beard tickles your skin, and you barely repress a shudder.

“…No.”

A ripple moves through the hall like thunder rolling across the mountains. Murmurs erupt from every corner of the chamber. Nobles rise from their seats, confused whispers swelling into open disbelief.

the sound of Gungnir striking the stone floor echoes through the room, silencing the crowd. Odin fixes his son with a stare that could split mountains.

“What did you say?”

Thor releases your hand and turns to face his father, his broad shoulders squared. His voice is steady and clear as he speaks.

"I said no, Father. I will not marry her."

You stare at him, unable to breathe.

“My son,” Odin warns.

Thor turns first to you. His expression is gentle, almost apologetic.

"My friend,” he says, quiet enough for only you to hear. “I do this for your sake as well as mine."

Then, he turns to the crowd, raising his hands for silence. A natural born leader. The hall immediately quiets, and he begins to speak.

“This marriage was never meant to unite two people. It was meant to unite two realms. And it is that union I wish to forge. I wish to honor the treaty between our realms, but I refuse to do so at the expense of our happiness."

What in gods name is he doing? You want to scream at him to stop, that this is foolishness, that you are already willing to make this sacrifice. But your tongue is tied to the roof of your mouth.

Your mother looks as though she has just seen a ghost. The Allfather looks like he might actually murder his son on the spot. Frigga, however, is the only person in the entire room who does not look surprised. She merely watches, her hands clasped calmly in front of her.

“The prince of Asgard still stands before you.”

Thor turns.

“Loki.”

Your blood freezes in your veins. You follow his gaze to the youngest prince that is still standing by the throne, and you watch as the full weight of Thor's words hits him.

“Loki possesses every right of royal blood that I do. He is a son of Asgard. If the purpose of this union is alliance, then the alliance need not die because I refuse to make prisoners of us both.”

Odin’s face hardens.

“Have you lost your senses?”

“No, Father.” Thor’s voice remains unwavering. “I have found them.”

Your heart hammers in your chest as you realize what Thor is doing. He is offering you an out. A way to save the alliance without forcing either of you into a loveless marriage. And he is doing it at the risk of being exiled.

He is saving you both.

"Loki is a prince of Asgard," Thor continues. "He is my brother.”

It is such an ordinary word. One Thor has spoken a thousand times without thought, yet never has it carried such weight.

Not after Jotunheim.

Not after learning the blood in Loki’s veins did not match the blood that raised him.

Every eye drifts to Loki, waiting to see if he will deny it, reject it, or disappear behind one of his carefully crafted masks.

He does none of those things.

He simply stares at Thor, as though he no longer understands the language he is speaking.

He doesn’t move.

For once, the God of Mischief has no clever retort waiting on his tongue. The carefully practiced mask he wears before the court has cracked. Disbelief flickers across his face, chased quickly by something far more vulnerable.

Forgiveness.

Fear.

They wage war behind his eyes.

“If this alliance is to endure, let it be built upon truth rather than sacrifice.” Thor’s gaze shifts between you and Loki. “I ask that the crown recognize Prince Loki as my equal in this matter and permit him to take my place.”

“You would surrender your claim?” Loki asks quietly, his voice stripped of every ounce of wit.

Thor smiles a tired, familiar smile that reminds you of two boys racing through palace corridors long before crowns and kingdoms demanded pieces of them.

“No,” he answers. “Only what was never mine to begin with.”

Odin’s face darkens, every trace of composure vanishing beneath the weight of wounded pride “Enough!” he thunders.

“You presume to dictate affairs of state before the assembled Nine Realms?” Odin narrows his eye, staring down his son with a look that would cower a lesser man. “You would cast aside years of negotiation for the sake of sentiment?”

“Do you ask me as my king…” Thor’s voice is calm, carrying to every corner of the chamber. “…or as my father?”

Odin says nothing.

“If you ask me as my king, then hear your heir.” He gestures toward you and then toward Loki. “The treaty remains intact. Alfheim shall still be joined to the House of Odin. The alliance is preserved. Nothing is lost but my place at the altar.”

His tone softens, pleading.

“But if you ask me as my father… then I beg you to look at your sons.”

Odin hesitates, and for a moment, his iron façade crumbles. His gaze flicks from Thor to Loki.

Two princes.

Two sons.

One standing with his shoulders squared against the weight of a kingdom.

The other standing impossibly still, as though moving might shatter the fragile hope that had settled over him.

At last, Odin exhales.

“…Very well.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

“The alliance shall stand… If Prince Loki is willing to accept the duty his brother relinquishes…”

Loki doesn’t hesitate.

“I am.”

Your heart thunders against your ribs as Odin turns to you. "Princess, do you consent to this arrangement?"

You are not sure what compels you to look to Frigga first. You aren’t certain why it is her gaze that you seek for confirmation, but it is. The queen of Asgard gives you a small nod of approval. And with that, you turn back to Odin.

"Yes," you say, your voice only wavering slightly. This time, the words come easily. “I do.”

Odin studies his oldest son for a long moment before giving a single nod.

“Then take your brother’s place.”

Thor steps aside, leaving the center of the dais open.

Loki descends the stairs and pauses in front of you. There is so much unspoken between the two of you. So many questions, so many emotions, so many things that could go wrong. But he is looking at you with an expression that makes you almost calm, and there is only one thing left to do.

You offer your hand to him, palm up. He looks at you like he doesn't believe you're real. His fingers tremble as he reaches for you, slowly sliding his hand into yours.

Just like the first time you ever touched him, you feel that familiar spark ignite at the contact.

With rapid clarity you finally understood.

All this time, you had believed the prophecy asked you to choose between two princes, and in only one of those scenarios would you someday become queen. You had believed the fates were demanding you sacrifice your happiness for the good of your people.

But the truth is so much simpler.

So much more beautiful.

The court would still bow. They would still call you “Your Majesty.” But only one of those women would answer without wondering who she might have been.

“Well,” he says, his voice low, meant only for you. He tilts his head and that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. "This is an unexpected turn of events."

***

You are married to Loki.

The binding had been made, the vows exchanged. Despite all odds, the peace treaty remained intact.

The feast had stretched long into the day, overflowing with music, laughter, and enough mead to convince the court that perhaps this strange turn of events had been fate all along. Lords who had expected to toast Thor instead now raised their goblets to Loki without hesitation, and though he wore his usual composed expression, you caught him glancing over the crowd now and then as though waiting for someone to declare the whole thing an elaborate illusion.

No one did. The marriage was real. Which left only one tradition still to fulfill.

Your ladies fuss over you in the antechamber, their chatter filling the room while deft fingers tug pins from your hair. Golden ornaments clink softly into waiting trays, followed by jeweled combs and the heavy ceremonial veil that had rested upon your head throughout the day.

“There,” one of them murmurs, running a brush through the loose waves cascading down your back. “Much better.”

Another laughs. “Her Highness looks terrified.”

“I am not,” you reply automatically.

The women exchange amused glances.

“You are,” one says gently. “Every bride is.”

You couldn’t exactly explain that the ceremony itself wasn’t what had your stomach tied into knots. It was everything that had led to this moment.

This morning, you had sat believing you were about to spend a lifetime with one brother. Now, as another maid slipped a simple ivory robe over your shoulders in place of the elaborate wedding gown, you found yourself preparing to share a bed with the man you had spent years despising.

The irony was almost laughable.

Had anyone told the girl who used to argue with Loki over every imagined slight that one day she would become his wife, she would have accused them of madness. But life in Asgard had grown unexpectedly, unbearably strange.

“All done,” your head lady says softly, fastening a simple gold chain around your throat. “You are ready, my lady.”

You look at your reflection.

The woman staring back at you hardly resembled the princess who had entered the hall that morning. Gone was the dread and the carefully rehearsed smile. In their place lingered a sort of calm.

“My father and mother won’t be in attendance, right?” you ask, turning away from the mirror.

You knew the customs, of course. But given the circumstances of this marriage — the sudden switch of grooms, the rushed ceremony, the political maneuvering beneath it all — you found yourself unable to stop double-checking every detail.

“No, my lady,” the head lady assures. “The traditions are clear. The bride and grooms relatives are not permitted beyond the threshold. The final rite is to only be witnessed by the officials and the elders of your two realms.”

Relief washes over you stronger than you expect, but it is quickly followed by another wave of nerves. “And the marriage will only be officially recognized once—”

“Once it has been witnessed that the union has been completed,” she finishes. “Yes.”

You nod slowly. The ceremony in front of the court meant little in Asgardian law. Without this final tradition, the marriage could be dissolved. All is not yet done, which means there is still time for it to all fall apart.

A Knock at the door echoes through the small room, and one of the younger maids scurries to open it. Your father stands there. His expression is neutral, but the lines etched around his eyes are deep as though the day had aged him years.

“Leave us,” he orders.

Your ladies bow deeply, then file out with soft steps, closing the doors behind them.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. He just studies you in the way only a father could — as though he’s trying to reconcile the child he raised with the woman standing before him now.

“Is mother upset?” you ask, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Your mother is… adjusting,” he says, stepping forward. “She had planned this day differently.”

His answer does not surprise you. It mattered not that Thor said no out of love for another, only that you had not been enough to secure the marriage.

She had planned your entire life differently, and your wedding to Thor had been the culmination of decades of alliance building. And while the treaty itself remained intact, the entire foundation had shifted beneath everyone’s feet.

You are not guaranteed to be future queen of Asgard anymore. Loki is not the heir, not the one who would inherit Asgard lest Thor’s disobedience to Odin’s orders cost him his place. The political implications of this marriage are complex, and though your own realm would gain a powerful connection through you, it would never be the one your mother envisioned.

“Are you upset?” you ask, finally meeting his gaze.

He shakes his head. “No. I am not.”

He steps close, reaching out to adjust the chain at your neck. His fingers linger against your collarbone for a moment, then drop.

“Your mother has never been good at adapting,” he says quietly. “She forgets that the tides shift and a queen who does not change with them drowns. You are different than her.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the little girl who had always tried so hard to be what her parents wanted.

“You do not think it is.. dishonorable?” you ask.

“Dishonorable to make peace? To save lives?” he scoffs. “No. You were not the one to make the mess, child. You simply made the most of it.”

He smooths the front of your robe, and the familiar gesture brings tears to your eyes. He used to do this when you were small — pat down your dress before you went into formal events, straighten your hair, wipe a smudge of dirt from your cheek. But the tenderness in his touch now is heavier, layered with years of regret and a quiet pride he rarely voiced aloud.

“But I must ask… are you truly alright with this?” he asks. “I’ve heard no complaints from you. You’ve accepted this union with Loki with a grace I would not expect.”

You realize for the first time that beneath all the political maneuvering and duty, he is simply a father asking the question that matters most. The question he cannot ask in front of a court or even your mother.

“Would it matter?” you ask softly. “If I wasn’t?”

A beat passes.

“Not to the realm,” he admits finally. “But it would matter to me.”

Something in your chest tightens, and although you have shed most of the tension of the day, the threat of tears rises again. You blink them back quickly.

“I know that my birth was never a matter of personal joy,” you say, testing the words that have lived unspoken between you for years. “It was political strategy. My very existence is a treaty.”

Your father exhales slowly, and his face shows a strain you rarely see. “That is a burden no child should bear. Yet you have, and I am… so sorry for it.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, throat tight.

“You have spent your entire life preparing for a role. The daughter, the diplomat, the future queen of Asgard through Thor,” he says, stepping back slightly. “I never taught you how to be yourself.”

Your mind races back through years of lessons. Etiquette, diplomacy, history, warfare, political strategy. The things that would make you valuable. Useful. But never once had someone asked you what you wanted.

“It matters not now,” you say, forcing steadiness into your tone.

“I am not finished,” he says gently. “I have spent my years as a king trying to secure alliances. But I have spent my nights as a father worrying about my daughter. And tonight, I find myself wishing I had worried less about the alliance and more about you.”

He reaches out and takes your hands. His palms are rough, but his grip is steady.

“I have no right to say this,” he says, “but I will. If Loki ever harms you—”

“He won’t,” you interrupt quietly. “He’s not what everyone thinks.”

Your father raises an eyebrow. “You believe that?”

“I do.”

“Then I will trust your judgment.” He releases your hands. “But know this: if you find you cannot bear this life, if you need an escape, you need only send word. I will come for you. Whatever the cost.”

You stare at him, stunned. This is the first unconditional offer you have ever received. The one thing he cannot offer as a king, he is giving you as a father.

“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice thick.

He nods, and no more words are needed between you. He simply holds out his arm, and you take it.

The halls are quieter now. As you walk, the torchlight flickers off the golden walls, making your shadows dance and merge on the polished floor.

Your father is silent, and you are grateful for it. There is nothing left to say that can prepare you for what comes next.

When you reach the doors leading to the Hall of Concord, two guards straighten, their faces impassive. Your father stops before them, then turns to you.

“Your mother and I leave for our realm tonight. This will be the last I see of you until the next solstice, unless you send word sooner.”

Your mother did not even intend to stay to say goodbye. A familiar pang of disappointment settles in your chest, though it is duller than it once would have been.

“Travel safely,” you say.

“And you,” he gives you one last lingering look. “Be well, my child.”

Then he is gone, striding away down the hall without a backward glance. You watch him until he turns the corner, then turn to face the doors.

Now or never.

Warm light spills into the corridor as the doors are pushed opened, carrying with it the low murmur of conversation and the faint perfume of burning incense. You step inside, your breath catching despite yourself.

The chamber stretched farther than you’d expected, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above. It was the one room in Asgard you’d never been permitted to see before this day.

You had heard tales of it, of course. The floor was said to be made of a single, massive slab of obsidian so polished it reflected the open starlit sky above.

At its center, upon a raised dais, rests the ceremonial bed.

It is draped in ivory linen embroidered with silver vines and golden leaves, the canopy above woven with the banners of both Asgard and Alfheim. Fresh blossoms spill across the coverlet — a bit over the top, even for Asgard. But you have learned that when it comes to their traditions, Asgardians do nothing halfway.

Around the dais stand the assembled witnesses. The royal steward occupies a place of honor at the head of the room several feet from the bed, while the elder nobles and respected families of both realms form a wide semicircle beyond.

It is easy to lose your nerve when everyone is looking at you. But when your eyes find Loki, a strange calm descends.

He stands near the foot of the dais, alone and apart from everyone else. Gone are the ceremonial layers he’d worn during the wedding, exchanged for garments befitting the final rite. A simple robe to match yours — only of a deep forest green. His hair, no longer pulled back in the formal arrangement of earlier, fall in dark waves across his shoulders.

He looks less like a prince and more like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp angles and quiet grace.

As the doors close behind you with a heavy thud, the conversation ceases. Every eye turns toward you and you have to resist the urge to fidget with the chain at your neck or straighten the nonexistent wrinkles in your robe. Instead you lift your chin and walk forward, your steps echoing in the sudden silence of the hall.

You come to a stop before Loki, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him but not quite touching. The air between you is charged, alive with the unspoken and the unknown.

“All rise,” the Stewards voice booms. “We are gathered here tonight for the final rite of union, witnessed and recorded in the halls of Asgard and the courts of Alfheim.”

His gaze sweeps over you, then over Loki, but there is no warmth in it. Only the cold, steady assessment of a man whose only care is protocol and the preservation of tradition.

“In accordance with ancient laws and for the security of the realms, the bride and groom shall consummate the marriage here tonight, in the presence of their witnesses.”

You can feel a light flush begin to creep up your neck, and you fight to keep your expression neutral. It is one thing to understand the tradition intellectually, quite another to hear it spoken aloud.

“Only once the union has been sealed will the treaty be binding and the marriage recognized by all Nine Realms,” he concludes. “What is done here tonight cannot be undone.”

Loki hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you entered the room, and as the man speaks, one side of his mouth curves into a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Nervous?” he murmurs, so softly that only you can hear.

“Of you? Never,” you murmur back, matching his quiet tone.

His smirk widens into a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them glitter in the torchlight. “Liar.”

The formal words come to an end, and with them everyone takes their seats.

Loki does not ask to take your hand this time, instead reaching for it with the ease of one who knows it is already his. You allow your fingers to curl around his as he pulls you up the dais toward the bed, where he then pauses to regard you.

His other hand comes up to brush a stray hair from your face. It lingers there for a moment, tracing along your cheekbone and coming to rest just below your ear.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, his voice pitched for you alone.

Recklessly so, you think. But you do not say it aloud. Instead, you tilt your head slightly into his touch and answer with a sure nod.

He leans in close until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. The feeling sends a shiver down your spine, and your eyes flutter shut of their own accord.

He smells of leather and cedar, clean and woodsy. Something you could lose yourself in if you were not careful, and you have never been careful with him.

His breath is warm as it ghosts along your skin.

"Good.”

His hand comes up to cup your other cheek and he kisses you slowly, languidly. His mouth moves with agonizing tenderness against yours, his lips brushing over yours again and again with the lightest touch.

Somewhere in the dizziness, your hands find his chest and curl into the fabric of his robe. You cling to it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself against the gentle assault of his mouth.

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you end up on the bed, only that at some point you are no longer standing but laying with your head pillowed on the softest pillows you have ever known.

Loki still stands above you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he reaches to untie the sash at his waist. The robe falls open to reveal smooth planes of pale skin and taut muscle, and you have to resist the urge to reach out and trace your fingers along the lines of his abdomen as you did what now impossibly felt like a lifetime ago.

He lets the garment drop from his shoulders to pool on the ground at his feet, revealing the full expanse of him.

All glory and no shame. His lack of nerves come as little surprise; you doubt that Loki has ever had occasion to feel shy about his body. Nor should he.

Yourself, on the other hand...

You have never felt more exposed than you do in this moment, and your body has not even been laid bare yet.

Loki seems to sense your discomfort, because his expression softens as he climbs onto the bed to kneel over you.

“Express yourself,” he says, and it is not just Loki making a suggestion. It is the command of a Prince. “Use your tongue. What is it that has you worried so?”

You don't know where to start.

That you're not an Aesir.

That you have no claim to beauty or grace, not like the women he must have been with in the past.

That it will hurt.

That you will embarrass yourself.

That you will embarrass him.

What comes out instead is, "I'm... scared."

He leans closer, and for a moment you think he means to kiss you again. Instead his lips graze your cheek until they come to rest by your ear, the warmth of his breath making you shiver.

"Be more specific, princess.”

The way his voice rolls over you is enough to make your head swim.

You are suddenly hyper aware of everyone's eyes on you, and it makes you feel small and exposed. You know they cannot hear your words, but they can see the way you move, the way your expression changes. The thought makes your cheeks flush, and you close your eyes against the scrutiny of the room.

“They are watching us," you whisper. "It makes me nervous."

His fingers trace a slow line down the side of your neck before coming to rest over your pulse.

"You want them to stop?"

"Yes," you breathe.

He takes a deep breath, and you feel the warmth of it against your throat as he exhales.

"Then open your eyes."

You do, and it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The stands are empty. Gone are the nobles and the courtiers and the family. The only person who remains is Loki.

“What—” You start to sit up, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Illusion," he explains, smiling faintly. "They are still there, able able to see everything that goes on in this room. I'm afraid that part is unavoidable. But we can pretend, at least, that it is just the two of us."

You glance around the room again, marveling at how real it all seems.

"How long can you hold this?"

"Longer than you could imagine.” His lithe fingers begin tracing along the edge of the robe where it falls at your collarbone, dipping into the hollow of your throat. "Why? Do you have other fantasies you would like me to indulge?"

"What else can you do?"

A slow grin spreads across his face.

"What can I not do, princess?" He slides your robe aside, exposing your shoulder to the chill of the air. "Perhaps I'll show you, some day."

“And why not today?"

His lips ghost across your collarbone as his hands move to the sash at your waist. He undoes it slowly, never taking his eyes off yours.

“Two lessons and you believe yourself ready for all I have to teach?"

You shiver as he slips the robe from your shoulders to pool beneath you, leaving you bare before him. He pauses a moment to look at you, his gaze roving over your body with such intensity that you have to fight not to shy away.

"Perhaps I'm eager to learn."

He makes a soft noise of amusement in the back of his throat as he lowers himself above you.

“Oh, darling. You haven't the faintest idea what you're asking for."

Your legs part of their own accord to allow him to settle between them, and he lowers his weight onto his forearms. The sudden feeling of his skin against skin makes you gasp, and his lips curve into a smile against your throat.

"I could take you to the ends of the universe and back, and you still wouldn't begin to comprehend the power at my fingertips." He pauses, seeming to consider his words. “Perhaps one day I'll show you just how far that power extends."

Your pulse quickens at the thought, and Loki chuckles as he feels it thrumming beneath your skin.

"Not tonight, princess," he murmurs, trailing kisses down the column of your throat. "Tonight I intend to do things properly, if only for your sake."

"I thought you didn't believe in doing things properly," you manage to rasp as he nips at your throat, eliciting a small sound from the back of your throat.

"Oh, I don't." He shifts slightly, and you feel the hard length of him against your thigh. He then presses forward until you are forced to spread your legs further apart to accommodate his hips. "But I've no desire to break you so soon after getting you."

His tongue traces a slow, languid line along the shell of your ear before he takes the lobe gently between his teeth. You gasp again, and this time the sound is accompanied by a breathy moan as you feel him slide between your folds, hot and heavy.

He hums with pleasure at your reaction, his voice low and smooth in your ear. "Does that feel good, princess?"

He pushes forward again and you nod, unable to form a coherent sentence.

"So eager," he purrs. "And to think, you were so reluctant to let me touch you before."

You open your mouth, but before you can find the nerve to say anything he trails his fingers down the side of your neck until they come to rest above the swell of your breast. He lets them linger there a moment, tracing light circles around your nipple before pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger.

It's just enough pressure to make you arch your back with a soft cry, and Loki's chuckle sends a warm shiver running down your spine.

"Look at you, writhing beneath me like a wanton little thing.” His free hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his grip firm as he forces your head back, exposing your throat. "Have I created a monster?"

"Loki," you gasp, feeling the slow tug of pleasure between your legs as he tauntingly grinds his hips against yours. "Please."

The hand in your hair tightens. "Do you remember what I told you the first time you came to me for a lesson?"

You try to nod your head, but he holds you firmly in place.

"Answer me."

"Y-yes."

"Say it."

You close your eyes. "Patience is a virtue."

It was the second thing he’d taught you that night, after teaching you how to let go of shame.

The first you had nearly mastered — but patience? That would take much longer, and knowing you had all the time in the world, you know he will insist on being thorough.

Loki hums with approval, and his fingers release your nipple to trace a lazy line down the center of your chest.

"Are you patient?"

No.

"Yes," you breathe.

His laugh is deep and dark in your ear as his hand dips lower, teasing the soft skin just below your navel.

"Is that so?"

"I can be," you insist.

His fingers come to rest at the apex of your thighs, where you ache the most, and he makes no effort to disguise his amusement as you instinctively press yourself against his hand.

"Mmm, I see. Shall I test your mettle, then?"

His fingers finally, finally, slide between your folds to stroke your aching clit and you moan as they begin circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing you mercilessly. It isn’t much longer until you give a small cry as he slips one inside, the sound echoing through the “empty” chamber.

This isn’t tradition.

He pumps slowly, in and out, curling his finger up to brush against the spot that makes you whimper with need.

Tradition dictates that this is supposed to be clinical, quick. It does not require that the groom take the time to play with his bride before he finally sinks inside her. In fact, you are certain that Loki is going well beyond the call of duty here.

But there is no way in Hel that you are going to stop him.

He watches your face carefully as he adds a second finger, stretching you so as he begins to pump a little faster. You gasp softly as his thumb joins his fingers to stroke your clit in slow circles, drawing the pressure out with agonizing tenderness.

“So tight,” he murmurs, and it sounds as if the words have been drawn out of him against his will. “I know not how I am meant to fit myself inside you."

You open your mouth to say something clever in return, but it dissolves into a soft cry as you feel another finger slip inside. It is slightly painful now, but it is tempered by the pleasure of feeling full. He holds still for a moment, allowing you time to adjust, before he resumes the steady rhythm.

You can't remember what it was that you meant to say.

Your head is thrown back, the muscles in your neck straining as you arch against his hand. The only sound in the room is the harsh panting of your breath and the wet squelch of his fingers moving in and out of you.

You feel the tightness building low in your stomach, but you can't seem to find the words to warn him. Instead all you can do is moan, and it spills from your mouth again and again as you try to find purchase on the sheets.

He takes one of your hands in his free one, entwining your fingers together, and pins it above your head. His other hand continues its relentless assault on your body, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge.

It's too much. It's too much.

"Loki," you gasp. "I — I —"

And then his lips are crashing down on yours, swallowing the rest of your sentence. The sudden pressure is enough to send you hurtling over the edge, and you come undone with a silent cry.

Your head is spinning as he pulls away, his breathing slightly labored, and you watch as he lifts his fingers to his lips to lick them clean. Just as he had the first night you spent with him.

You distantly wonder if the invisible crowd can see the familiarity with which he does it, or if that knowledge is just for you.

He lowers himself above you, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You do.

"Are you ready?"

You nod, and his expression softens.

"I want to hear you say it. Do you want this?"

You take a deep breath.

Is it not too late? You are already naked and exposed and laid bare before him.

Could you turn back now, even if you wanted to?

He seems to sense your hesitation, because he lets go of your wrist to cup your cheek. it helps you to focus.

“Stop thinking of your people. Think of only yourself, here with me, in this moment. For once in your life, do something selfish." His thumb strokes lightly over your cheekbone, and his eyes search your face. "Do you want me?"

There is only one answer.

"Yes."

He lowers his head until his lips are hovering just above yours, but he makes no move to close the distance. Instead he stays there, suspended in space as if waiting for something.

It takes a moment to realize what he is waiting for.

You lift your chin and press your lips to his, tentatively at first. When he does not pull away, you deepen the kiss, parting your lips and letting your tongue trace along the seam of his mouth. He opens to you, allowing you access, and you slide your tongue against his with a small sigh.

He groans against your mouth as the hot, velvet weight of his cock stretches your entrance. You can't help the gasp that escapes you as he slides in inch by agonizing inch.

Finally, when he is fully sheathed inside you, he breaks the kiss to murmur softly against your lips.

“I promised you three lessons," His voice is a low rumble. "Let this be the last one.”

Letting go of shame, learning to service, and…

“What is this one?" you manage to choke.

"Surrender," he breathes, and you cry out as he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back into you.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder as you cling to him, anchoring yourself against the sudden onslaught of sensation.

He sets a slow, steady pace. His thrusts are not punishing, but they deep and thorough. Your body has never felt so full. So complete.

You don’t know when it happened, but somehow your hands have found their way into his hair as you cling to him, unable to form a coherent thought beyond more. More. More.

It doesn’t hurt as you feared. In fact, there is no pain at all. Just an unexplainable thing, like the feeling of stretching before a long run or the slight burn of sore muscles after training. It feels strange and new, but not unpleasant.

And then it feels... good.

He takes his time, slowly rocking into you with a measured kind of gentleness that you would not have expected from a God who is known for his lack of restraint. He touches you everywhere he can reach as if trying to memorize every inch of you. And you touch him too, because he is yours now, and you have the right.

Your fingers slide over his arms, his chest, his shoulders. They tangle in his hair then trace along his jaw. They find his back, his hips, the curve of his ass. They roam wherever they please, leaving small marks in their wake.

He does not seem to mind.

At some point he takes your hand and guides it between your legs, urging you to touch yourself as he watches with a hooded gaze.

And you do, because he asks it of you.

Another break of custom, and one that comes uncharacteristically naturally.

Is it truly so easy to abandon the formalities and the rigid expectations you’ve been trained to follow your entire life? You never even knew such an option existed.

You wonder if this is who you really are. If perhaps this was the version of you that had always been there, hidden beneath the skin and just waiting for someone to free it.

Your entire life you have been a person who obeys rules and traditions and decorum. Even here, on your wedding night, you have followed them dutifully.

But with him it is different. With him you do not feel bound by the things that have always governed you. With him you feel free.

It is a revelation, and it sends you soaring.

“You, princess of Alfheim and Asgard, are going to be the death of me," Loki groans, and his voice is little more than a broken whisper.

His words send a jolt through you and you tighten around him, drawing a low moan from his throat.

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, where it seems to fit so perfectly, as if it was meant to be there all along. He presses an open mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear as his hips begin to move faster, harder. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“I am yours. Say it."

"You are mine," you whisper.

"Again."

"You are mine, Loki."

It is as if he is still seeking reassurance even now.

And he is yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Just as you are his… but he has given you something more than that. Something no one has ever given you before.

You are not just a wife that belongs to him. You are a woman that wants to be, and that makes all the difference in the world.

Your hand finds his cheek and you turn his face toward you until your noses are brushing and his breath is mingling with yours.

"I am yours," you say again, and you hope he understands what you mean by it.

I love you.

It’s a startling thought, but not one that is entirely foreign.

In truth you think you might have loved him all along, from that very first day when you arrived at the palace as a girl and he had — albeit begrudgingly — given you a tour of the grounds.

All the arguments and the sharp words. Every time he had delighted in getting beneath your skin, only to linger long after he had left the room.

You had mistaken constancy for conflict.

Everyone else eventually yielded to you. They bowed because you were a princess. They agreed because it was easier. They smiled politely and told you what they thought you wished to hear.

Loki never did.

He questioned you. Challenged you. Infuriated you. He was the only one who ever met your fire with his own.

And somehow, in all those years of bickering and barbed remarks, neither of you had realized you were doing the same thing over and over again:

Finding your way back to one another.

Perhaps love had never arrived all at once. It had grown quietly in the spaces between the things you didn't say and the way your eyes always found his across a room.

You love him.

You love him and looking back on it now, you cannot remember a time when you didn’t.

And you have surrendered.

You let go of everything that has held you back for so long and allow yourself to fall. Surprisingly, it is not frightening. It is exhilarating and freeing and everything you ever needed.

All you must do is follow.

And you do, tumbling headlong into your own desire. You come undone for the second time with his name on your lips, and you are dimly aware of his answering groan as you clench around him, sending him hurtling over the edge with you.

As the world begins to right itself around you, you become aware of Loki's breathing. It is ragged, harsh, as if he had just run a great distance or fought a long battle. You are not far behind him.

Carefully, he pulls out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you shiver, but in one swift motion he pulls you up until both of you are positioned upright in the center of the bed. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck and he holds you close, his face buried in your hair.

“You alright?" he murmurs softly, and you nod.

The moment seems to stretch on forever, but in reality it can only be a few heartbeats before he reluctantly lets go and pulls away.

“Are you ready to face them?” he asks, glancing pointedly at the empty stands where everyone else waits.

Your eyes follow his, and you take a deep breath.

"Yes," you answer, and this time you are certain of it.

He nods, and the room slowly fades back into focus. The weight of a thousand eyes becomes a physical thing that settles on your shoulders like a cloak as the illusion dissolves completely, revealing the stands once again filled with people.

Some of them looked beyond shocked. Some were even looking away, their expressions ranging from scandalized to embarrassed. Others did not bother to hide the way their eyes were locked on the two of you, curiosity and something akin to hunger on their faces.

The Royal Steward steps forward, his face red as he clears his throat. "With this, the final rite of union is complete.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, "On behalf of Asgard and Alfheim, we thank you."

You watch as the Royal Steward bows, and the rest of the stands quickly follow suit.

"I believe that is our cue," Loki says, and there is an amused note in his voice.

In a flash of emerald light, your robes settle once more upon your shoulders.

A ripple of murmured disapproval passes through the assembled court. According to tradition, Loki should have cleansed you with the ceremonial cloth, dressed you himself, and formally presented you to the court.

It is terribly improper.

Entirely deliberate.

So unmistakably Loki.

Although unnoticeable to the crowd, you know his choice to leave his seed dripping down your thighs was intentional. You have to fight the urge to squirm where you sit.

Before you can take so much as a single step, he slips one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees. With effortless ease, he lifts you from the bed.

A startled laugh escapes you, instinctively looping an arm around his shoulders.

“Loki!”

“You weren’t truly planning on walking, were you?” he murmurs, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Half the realm would spend the next century debating your gait.”

Heat floods your cheeks.

He isn’t wrong.

After everything the day has demanded of you — of both of you — you are fairly certain your legs would betray you before you reached the door.

“You are insufferable,” you whisper.

“And yet,” he replies, unable to suppress the crooked smile tugging at his lips, “you married me anyway.”

The great doors swing open before you, and the once reluctant crowd bursts into cheers. It follows you through the corridors and out into the gardens, where the people gather to celebrate the union of two kingdoms.

It is a thing of wonder, the way they look at you now. No longer with the guarded suspicion and distrust they once held so closely, but with hope and a kind of quiet pride.

They look at you as if they have never seen you before, and you suppose in a way they haven't. You aren’t just a princess of Alfheim anymore. Now you are also a Princess of Asgard.

Loki carries you all the way to the edge of the fountain and sets you down gently on the marble ledge.

The cheering seems to have quieted somewhat as the crowds take their places around the garden, but the joy is still palpable in the air.

Everything seems almost too perfect to be real.

Thor dances with Sif, laughing as she drags him about the grass.

The allfather watches over the proceedings with his usual grim expression, but there is something softer about it that you have never seen before.

The allmother wears a serene grin as she gazes out over the festivities. She catches your eye and gives you a small nod of approval, and you know that whatever has placated Odin is largely due to her influence.

Volstagg hoists a barrel of ale onto the table, prompting several of the nobles to begin passing out glasses. Fandral is already on his second if the way he sways is any indication.

And finally, the seer.

She stands alone beside a tall ash tree at the edge of the garden, her white eyes staring off into nothing. Or perhaps they see everything. You cannot say for certain, but you know that she can sense you, for her head turns in your direction and a small smile plays across her lips.

You have no doubt that you have made the correct decision.

You had believed the shadow the seer spoke of belonged to Loki. The forgotten prince. The keeper of secrets. But shadows were never proof of evil, they were only proof of light. And you knew now that he was not the shadow in this story.

He was the light.

Your light.

And your heart had chosen him.

By time the sun had set, your feet were aching from dancing and your cheeks were sore from smiling. You have been introduced to more people than you care to count, and it is late enough that even the most enthusiastic revelers have retired for the night.

Now you sit side by side on a cliff overlooking the sea, watching as the waves crash against the rocks below. Your bare feet dangle off the edge, and it feels almost as if the two of you are suspended above the world.

For a long moment neither of you speak, content to sit in this newfound peace together. But it is unlike the youngest prince of Asgard to let a silence linger for very long, and you feel the need to break it before he does.

"What are you thinking?” you ask softly, glancing over at him.

He stares off into the distance, his expression thoughtful.

“That I do not deserve this.” He glances down at his hands. At the ring on his finger. “It is not my nature to be happy. I can’t help but think that sooner or later this will be taken from me."

You reach over to place your hand over his, intertwining your fingers.

“Not if I have anything to say about it."

“I am not of Asgard — not truly. I do not know what the future holds for me here."

You stay quiet, letting him work through whatever he needs to say.

“It was never a question who would someday take my fathers place as king, no matter how much I might wish it otherwise. Thor has always been the clear choice for the throne, and he is better suited for it than I. It is his birthright, and I have accepted it. Odin will forgive him for his indiscretions, as he has always done before. Even when it nearly cost him his life and all of Asgard besides.”

When the silence stretches on, you prompt him gently, "I do not see how this pertains to us."

He sighs. "You too, as my brother, was born to rule. You have always been meant for greater things than I. And I… I can not make you queen. I fear that one day you will find yourself resenting me for it."

For a moment you just stare at him. Then, despite every effort to stop yourself, you laugh.

Loki blinks.

“You are laughing.”

“I am.”

“I’ve just confessed one of my deepest insecurities.”

“You have.”

“And your response is laughter.”

You nod, trying — and failing — to compose yourself.

His brow furrows in that wonderfully familiar way, offense settling across his features with almost theatrical precision.

“You find this amusing?”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

There he is.

The infuriating, dramatic boy who had spent years arguing with you over everything from swordsmanship to whether roses ought to have perfectly symmetrical petals.

“No," you manage to say, seriousness finally returning to your voice. "I find it ridiculous."

Loki opens his mouth, but you hold up a hand to silence him before he can speak.

“I was born for the sole purpose of being a pawn. Something I’m sure we both know all too well. We were made to be used, Loki. And we have been used. By our parents. By our people. By everyone else who believes they have a claim to us.”

He looks away, and you reach out to tilt his face toward you once more.

“I never wanted to be a queen. All I ever wanted was to be free. And now that I am, I don't think I could go back." You hesitate a moment, trying to find the right words. “You do not get to decide what I deserve. Neither does Thor, nor Odin, nor anyone else in the realms. Only I can. And I have decided that you are what I want. Do you understand?”

His eyes search yours for a long moment, but you hold his gaze steadily.

Then he smiles.

“Of course your first act as my equal is to give me an order."

You narrow your eyes at him, but you can't quite disguise the smirk tugging at your lips.

"And my second act will be to toss you over this cliff if you don’t obey it."

“Careful. Threatening the prince, husband or not, may be considered treasonous."

"If you think that is a threat, then you clearly have not been paying attention," you say dryly, raising an eyebrow.

He grins. "Darling, I have been paying attention to everything about you since the day we met."

You roll your eyes and give him a little shove. "Flatterer."

He catches your hand as you move to push him, and in one fluid movement he tugs you forward until you are on his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you.

"Perhaps," he says, “but that does not mean it is not true."

The smile you give him is shy, and he traces a finger along the curve of your cheek as he gazes at you.

“You know, we can visit Alfheim whenever you like." His thumb grazes along your lower lip. "I believe I am owed a tour."

You smile.

"I think I would like that."

You are certain that there will be difficulties both large and small, and some that may even seem insurmountable. But that is something you can worry about another day. Tonight, you do not wish to think of anything except him.

“Then it shall be.”

You make a noncommittal noise as you settle against him, your head coming to rest just below his chin. His heart beats steadily beneath your ear, and you allow yourself to bask in the warmth of him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, echoing the question you had asked him moments earlier.

You close your eyes, letting the sounds of the horse and the sea wash over you.

“For the first time since arriving in Asgard as a frightened little girl, I feel at home."

Loki shifts slightly so he can press his lips to the top of your head.

“Welcome home.”

You smile.

“Your mother spoke to me today.”

He hums softly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

He chuckles.

“She gave me a gift.”

You feel him stiffen just enough to know you’ve piqued his curiosity.

“A gift?”

“A book. On seidr.”

Loki pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Mother gave you a book on magic?”

“She believed it would serve me one day.”

“Then I suspect it will,” Loki says simply. “My mother was rarely in the habit of giving gifts without purpose.”

“But that wasn’t the strange part.”

You think back to the worn leather binding beneath your fingertips, to Frigga’s gentle hands resting over yours.

This will help you mend the threads when they fray.

At the time, you had thought she meant treaties. Politics. The endless obligations of a queen. Now you wondered if she had meant something much smaller and Indefinitely harder.

You wonder if perhaps she meant family.

You think of Thor, who had surrendered everything because he refused to make prisoners of either of you.

You think of Odin, who had, if only for a moment, looked at both of his sons instead of only one.

You think of the years Loki had spent believing himself unseen.

Threads. Broken ones. Frayed ones. And somehow, all of them had begun to weave together.

A queen was not the one who wore the finest crown.

She was the one who refused to let the kingdom unravel.

“She knew,” you whisper.

Loki’s brow furrows.

“About us,” you clarify.

You feel him hesitate before answering.

“I think…” He exhales through his nose. “I think she knew long before either of us did.”

A laugh escapes you.

“That is horribly unfair,” you murmur.

“It is.”

“We spent years arguing.”

“So we did.”

“We could scarcely be in the same room without finding something to disagree about.”

“I distinctly remember you beginning most of them.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“I simply corrected you.”

“You called my illusions ‘uninspired.’”

“They were.”

He lets out an affronted noise.

“I still don’t understand why she chose today of all days to give me the book,” you say thoughtfully, ignoring his protests.

Loki scoffs, though it is more fond than annoyed

“oh she has just ensured I shall never win another argument.”

You laugh.

“I hardly need magic for that.”

“No,” he sighs dramatically. “That has been painfully evident for years.”

He kisses your forehead.

“I pity the poor soul who attempts to outwit both of us now.”

You lean into him, smirking.