Disclaimer: I don't own these Jotnar. They are the property of Marvel via some Dark Age Norsemen.

A/N: In mythology, Laufey is Loki's mom. In the MCU, he's Loki's dad. In this fic, frost giants are implicitly hermaphroditic (with physical dimorphism between their races rather than genders), so I'm calling him Loki's dam.

Warning: This work is rated T for a reason! It discusses infanticide practices, as well as off-screen violence.

Until Tomorrow

There was, at birth, no discernible difference between a hrimthurs runt and a healthy ividja. At least, none that was discernible to Laufey King, who was himself hrimthurs—strong, solid, and imposing as all that race were famed to be, but also utterly seidr-blind. If Laufey's mate Farbauti were there, it would be the work of five seconds for the physically smaller but magically talented ividja to sense if their newborn was like its sire—imbued with seidr-shoots from the World Tree, which would empower a too-tiny babe to survive on Jotunheim—or if it was an ill-born mimicry of its towering dam.

Farbauti, however, was not there. Would never be there again. He had died diverting Odin Bolverkr's forces, so that his husband-and-king could retreat to the Temple of Mimir and deliver their child in the sanctuary of Yggdrasil's roots.

Yet now, ironically, that same child was in danger, for without a trained seidr-mage to divine its nature, Laufey had no choice but to follow Mimir's Code in regards to his palm-sized son. He was to place his newborn on the Altar without food or swaddling for one full turn of the sun. If it lived, it was clearly ividja; if it died, a malformed hrimthurs (which would have only expired—sooner or later—anyway).

Horrible as it was, there was wisdom in this practice, for a runty hrimthurs might survive a week, a month, sometimes (if the parents were especially unlucky) even a year or two in seeming health. During that time, it would carve out a place for itself in its parents' hearts and in their slim resources. But eventually, whatever was wrong inside the child would show, leaving it sweating out its own blood or vomiting up its own organs or breaking its own back in violent seizures. Better a swift, comparatively painless death by exposure than that.

Still, it took the unyielding hand of Vafthrudner, the Temple's chief priest, to pull him away from his son.

"He will be ividja," Laufey blurted, as if saying it would make it so.

"Then you have no need to worry," Vafthrudner soothed. "It is not as if you both were hrimthurs and there was no hope."

"No, his chances are half and half, at least. He will be ividja."

"It, Laufey. Until tomorrow, say 'it.' Now, come away. Rest. All will be well."

"Odin, though—"

"No. Bale-worker Odin may be, but he would not violate the Temple's sanctity. Not here, at the base of the World Tree, where any evil echoes up. You will have this one day's reprieve, at least. But now, come away. Come bathe in the Well. There is wisdom in this."

"You are right, of course," Laufey agreed, casting one last, longing look at his precious child.

But Vafthrudner, it turned out, was wrong, and Laufey would not see the babe for another 1,046 years. For in less than an hour, Odin would break Mimir's Code, trespass on the Temple, murder its priest as he guarded the weakened Laufey by the Well (losing an eye in the process), and steal both the Casket of Ancient Winters and the hope of the Jotun king's heart.

"Just one day," Laufey told himself.

And wept.