"Ymir!" Boomed Lord Ragnarok across the courtyard. "Daughter mine, what are you doing?"

Ymir, wide eyes, ruffled hair, and drenched in sweat, yelped, straightening to look at her father, tall and lanky form leaning backwards, away from the threat. Her younger brother, Heimdall, jumped to his feet, standing between his sister and father. "Father! We were simply playing!"

The Lord scoffed and stormed across the courtyard, purple cape billowing around him with every step. Ymir winced. She was in trouble once more. "Both of my children, should know their places!" The Lord snarled, slapping the son with the back of his hand. He calmed almost instantly after the clap echoed about the courtyard. "Heimdall, my son, go play with your brother." Heimdall, nursing his stinging, red cheek, ran away after a grim nod to his sister, white cape covered in soot and grime whipping about at his feet.

Ymir braced herself for the punishment she was inevitably going to receive. "Father…"

The Lord held his hand up in silent aggravation. "Ymir, you are old enough to understand your place, I cannot tolerate your disgrace any longer. You are weak, you belong inside, learning the proper etiquette of a Lady of your stature. I've put up with this behavior for nine years now. It's time it ends. Now, go, do not let me catch you playing such wretched games again."

Ymir turned to her maidens, narrowing her eyes. "What could my father, The Lord, possibly desire?" She drawled, staring down at the girls before her. They were only a year or so younger than her, but she was tall for her age, and these girls seemed to shrink before her. At thirteen years old she held a great deal of power and political prowess that scared most visitors and absolutely terrified those who knew her.

One of the braver girls stepped forward. "We know not, Lady Ymir, we have been sent by the Lord himself to prepare you for his presence."

Suspicious, since Ymir's father rarely required her existence unless there were important visitors, such as the great Emperor, whom she had so easily charmed. But the gray shawl and elegant, silk-like toga draped across her shoulders and wrapped perfectly around her taut body, hinted that this meeting was almost, if not more, important than meeting the supreme ruler of the four Cardinal Kingdoms. Ymir allowed her young guides to bring her to her father's throne room, something she could have easily achieved on her own, but her father's orders were not to be disobeyed.

Sophisticated, and perfectly postured, Ymir entered the room. Her eyes were naturally drawn up the huge, lavishly sculpted Greek pillars, blending seamlessly into beautiful Roman arches that seemed to glow with an austere, very symmetrical design, seeming to conflict with the ornate ceiling and decorated pillars but instead only highlighting the artfully crafted architecture. The room could house fifteen Titanic Warriors while they stood at full height. However, Ymir's favorite part of the room stood at the opposite end of the gigantic double doors. Across from her, lighting the room with sunlight, a huge stained glass mural towered to the ceiling, it was the battle of the Cardinals. Thousands of Titanic figures, warriors, stood shoulder to shoulder, facing off Heathens that outnumbered them by millions. That particular day in their history had been a mysterious day, Ymir's mother had told her. Because on that day, the Kingdoms were cleaned of the Heathen destruction, but many lost their memories, and much of the human population simply vanished. No one knew the outcome of the battle. Though, Ymir assumed that the Warriors had won, had they not, she doubted any humans would be left to tell the tale of defeat. The sight of the ornate art was marred however, by the two throne obstacles and the four figures standing between her and her beloved mural.

She glided forward, a special skill her mother had taught her. A lady must always be graceful and clever.

Ymir finally reached them, finally capable of seeing the four figures more clearly. Her father sat in the largest, finely decorated throne directly in the middle of the room. Her elder brother, Surt, lounged in the smaller throne lazily, as if he hadn't a care in the world, red cape draped, nearly touching the floor, over one arm. Heimdall stood to the side, sword at his waist and staff in hand, he stood ramrod straight, his feet shoulder width apart. His yellow cape swayed with the breeze escaping through one of the side, servant doors. The fourth figure she did not recognize immediately. His back had been turned to her, but he stood before the Lord as if he were giving a report of something important in the kingdom. His shoulders were tensed in an odd way that made Ymir more curious and confused than uncomfortable. He had broad shoulders and a muscular back. He wore the tight pants and leather armor of a Warrior. His black hair was brushed back into a leather band and his bare forearms and muscular thighs proved his intense power.

Then the man turned. His eyes were a piercing blue, lips thin and bowed, and his jaw was broad and sharp. He was handsome, yet Ymir did not find herself attracted to him. His broad sword at his hip glinted in the light and she saw his lips twitch into a small smirk. Ymir bowed to her father before bowing to the stranger.

"Daughter mine," The Lord spoke jovially, as if he had had a wonderful day. "This is Tyr, our mightiest Titanic Warrior. He has led many in battle to victory and he shall be wed to you come springtime."

Ymir gaped at her father. "Father, Lord, I don't wish to marry."

The Lord's face grew red in anger and humiliation. "I don't believe I ordered your response, child."

Ymir pressed her lips together. "I apologize."

Tyr turned to her, bowing with all of the grace of a dancer, Ymir supposed there wasn't much difference between dancing and fighting. Ymir knew that much from the endless dueling she and her brothers watched, from the light sparring Ymir followed between her brothers, from her own rebellious night training with some of the rough, peasant mercenaries who had taken a liking to Ymir's well-placed charisma. A lethal dance, it was beautiful, graceful, simple, and oh so liberating!

Tyr stretched out his large calloused hand, a hand Ymir knew any other girl would jump at the chance to take, and smiled. "Lady Ymir," He purred silkily. In that moment, Ymir loathed his skill. His eyes told her he had as little care for her as she for him, however, he played the etiquette game so masterfully, with such ease, and Ymir couldn't stem the jealousy.

"My beloved," She simpered, she knew her father and her brothers wouldn't catch the sarcasm, but by the way Tyr's face contorted from polite and required courtesy into a bit of hurt and just as much amusement, she knew Tyr had.

Heimdall moved from the corner of Ymir's eyes and entered her field of vision, smiling broadly and gesturing widely, openly, a hand towards his father and a hand towards Tyr. "I propose a grandiose feast in celebration! Sister mine and the mighty Tyr! Such a match could only bring strength to our realm!" Ymir did not miss the look Heimdall sent her way, he was giving her an excuse to step away and collect herself and she gladly took it. Tyr wasn't as remotely repulsive as the multitude of other suitors her father rejected frequently, he wasn't as old, perhaps only twenty three.

It was not at the feast, but the subsequent party afterwards that Tyr finally cornered Ymir on her favorite balcony, hidden from the guests, overlooking the town and giving a perfect view of the vast, endless galaxy above them. "Lady Ymir," He bowed upon her recognition. "I've been looking for you."

Ymir couldn't stop her sneer. "You've found me. But perhaps I didn't wish to be found."

Unexpectedly, Tyr laughed. "I can't say that I blame you. After all to find out you're to be married without your consent, it must be overwhelming. These parties are sometimes more than I can handle, I can't imagine how you feel."

Ymir stared at him. There was a point to him. He's looking for something, with the way he was appealing to her feelings, her thoughts, her emotions, that wasn't proper etiquette, even if he was raised by peasant farmers. "Mighty Tyr, what is it that you are implying?"

His laughter faltered, only to continue with renewed vigor. "Lady Ymir, you're much cleverer than your fathers can possibly imagine. But if you must know, I can tell that you're rather bitter. If not, you're jealous, and looking for vengeance, am I correct?" Ymir's attention had been piqued. "I plan to conquer all of our realm, and then the four Cardinals. I'll drive out every last Titanic Heathen off of the world, and unite our kingdom. I planned at first to overthrow the Lord myself with my army of followers. But I've found a much simpler way. Through marrying you and disposing of your father and Surt, I will gain control over this realm. Heimdall is unnecessary, as he is younger, in my marriage to you I become next in line to the throne behind Surt."

"And why, pray tell, are you telling me all of this?"

"Because Lady Ymir, you are a critical part of my plan. I can tell from afar that you will be talented in the art of gaining me followers. If I could just recruit you, I will have the kingdom in my hands. I know, from the fact that you are much cleverer than perhaps even me, that you wouldn't appreciate my talking in circles or curtaining of my intentions. You have a very rare ability to see through lies. Lady Ymir, I've been planning this for a very long time and I do believe that you are the grease to my wheel."

Ymir stared at him. "I don't want to be your wife."

Tyr's smile fell. "Is that so?"

"However," She stepped back "I will assist you in your endeavor. I'll marry you. But do not expect my absolute obedience." She snarled, brightening Tyr's smile once more.

"My Lady Ymir, I promise you shall not be disappointed."

Ymir nodded and turned once again to the site to behold before them, rolling hills and giant forests dotted the darkened lands below them, only lightened by the moon and stars looming above. The two remained silent for several minutes, Ymir looking up into the sky, pondering deep thoughts, Tyr staring.

"I planned for so many different possibilities, but I don't believe I ever planned for you to be so beautiful."

Ymir's sneer returned. "Sorry to ruin your plans."

"I apologize, My Lady Ymir, I misspoke. I didn't account for your beauty, I suppose I was too caught up in my plans, I forgot to imagine what such an elegant Lady should look like." Tyr amended awkwardly.

"For a handsome man you lack in finesse with women." Ymir chuckled.

Tyr smiled once more. "I'm not lying, I'm sure you know. You're rather beautiful."

Ymir laughed. "Look how far we've come. At first, you know, you were complimenting my intelligence, I suppose that must have made you uncomfortable, you had to resort to stroking my vanity instead!" Tyr resembled a scolded puppy and Ymir could not hide her mirth. "Do you not see how caged I am? No. This marriage is not only aiding you, Warrior. I shall gain freedom from this. And should I not, well. I can just as easily betray you."

Tyr nodded. "My Lady Ymir, our positions in this dance of an arrangement are clear now. You desire freedom? Then freedom shall be granted!" Just as Tyr finished his tirade a commotion behind them drew their attention. "Ah, that should be my plan coming to order now."

"Down! Down with the Lord! Down with the Lord and all of his foolish subjects!" A crazed man screamed, blood covered his clothing and matted his beard. His eyes were irate with insanity. Ymir shuddered. She could guess whose blood covered him, but she put the thought aside to play the part of a shocked orphan. She gripped Tyr's arm and they entered the room, playing the part of terrified witnesses. A remarkable waltz, they played off of each other in perfect harmony, Ymir couldn't deny that Tyr would make a great partner in their scheme.

Surt, his blood red cape cloaking him in a trail of his own fury, roared in anger. "Take him away! Take the traitor away! To the dungeons! He shall face execution!" His voice cracked only once, and then returned to the confident booming he had inherited from his father.

Ymir braced herself against Tyr, grateful that the scared part she played veiled her true terror. Her brother had always been too impulsive and scary for her to spend much time with him. There were screams and chaos in the room, but Surt took control of the room rapidly and precisely. The guests were evacuated away to be interviewed and interrogated. Ymir remained at Tyr's side until Heimdall appeared before her. "You should leave, dear sister."

"Heimdall! Is father-"

Heimdall's face fell. His grim expression struck ice through her gut. "I'm afraid so, dear Ymir. Now go, grieve in private before we must grieve publicly."

The funeral was grandiose in scale. The entire realm participated, whether through genuine grief for their Lord or because they were forced to Ymir didn't know, but frankly, it disgusted her. The procession stretched for miles, marching down streets, drums and chanting leading them forward. They began at the far end of the city and slowly they made their way to the Royal Graveyard, the whole process taking most of the day. Nobody ate or drank, nobody sat and rested, it was a march under the blazing sun, reflected off of the buildings around them, Ymir was miserable. Ymir was bombarded with condolences from everyone around her, every time someone would rush forward to apologize and console, she'd fake a tear and grip at Tyr's muscled bicep.

Ymir couldn't avoid feeling offended, after all, it was the blood of her own father, the same blood that flowed through her veins, that was spilled and she had to comfort others over the death of a man she hated? Gods help the people who approached her with condolences accompanied by tears just as fake as her own! As offended as she was, she couldn't expect any less, she had been through the same process after the death of her mother and gods did she hate that women just as much, caged in dresses and fake smiles, not a thought in that woman's head was her own and it made Ymir sick.

Tyr was much more supportive than Ymir expected. After all, he had orchestrated her father's death, she supposed it was a sense of duty that kept him at her side. He spoke for her when she was overwhelmed, after all, it only made sense, and the young Lady was wracked with grief and emotion. Honestly, Ymir didn't trust herself enough not to scream expletives at them.

It was Surt who was most affected by the Lord's passing. He created a holiday based upon his father's birth, he called it the Ragnarok. Something Ymir and Tyr later laughed at. Following his orders, the entire realm was wreathed with black and veils hung over the women's faces, even the lively young maidens.

Ymir didn't truly feel her father's absence until she was called upon by her brother. When she appeared in the throne room, wreathed in black, she noticed her older brother lounging in her father's throne red draped across the arm of the chair. He wore silver wrist gauntlets and his body was wrapped tightly in black leather. He obviously wanted to be seen as naturally powerful. Heimdall stood to the side where he normally stood, staff in hand, sword at his belt, yellow cape. He looked down upon his sister with the ghost of a smile.

"Sister mine, how've you been faring in these trying times?" Surt called, almost jovially across the room.

"Well, brother mine. For what do you require of me?" Ymir asked as she approached the thrones with a graceful bow.

Heimdall stepped down, meeting Ymir personally. "Ah, sister of mine. The realm is in mourning, there is upheaval in some of the outer skirts of town, the people aren't happy, and the passing of our dear father has impacted us greatly. We ask of you to move your wedding to the week after next, so as to provide the realm with a positive distraction from the Titanic Heathens."

"It will be grand!" Surt smiled almost dreamily. "I'll only have the best for my dearest sister!"

Heimdall's green eyes danced with hope, he had reddish hair, unlike Surt and herself, who both had plain brown eyes and hair. His yellow cape seemed to brighten his dusting of freckles and she remembered just how young Heimdall really was. He was a year her junior, that put him at twelve years old. She looked back over at Surt. He tried so hard to look older and sophisticated, but she could see his eighteen years still written on his face.

Surt stood to pace the thrones. "Your marriage, as Heimdall suggested, should provide us a distraction while we send out the Warriors to take care of those Heathens to our south, give us a good reason to feast and shut up some of those whiny peasants."

"Yes, Lord Brother, I'll speak to my beloved Tyr to notify him of this change of schedule. He'll be most pleased." Ymir managed a smile.

"Yes, go." Surt waved her away without another word, not sparing a second thought to his younger sister. As she left, Ymir thought of the freedom she would gain once she and Tyr gained control of the Cardinal Kingdoms.

A/N Hey guys! So obviously I'm writing this as if the latest few chapters haven't been written. Simply because I can't, for the life of me, figure out what the hell I just read. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please drop me a review! This has a pretty complicated plot because it's basically figuring out what makes Ymir, well, Ymir. I love Ymir, she's adorable. Anyway, if you have any questions ask, though some of your questions may be answered in later chapters, I promise I will answer them. Unlike a certain someone we all know and a certain basement that has been forgotten...