Prologue

And whence a son is born to the Allfather,

upon his head a curse be:

for by his hand will the mighty fall

and the land lie open to the greedy.

But when all seems without hope,

look to the frost.

There are hidden treasures deep within

the blood of the kin that was lost.

-Asgardian prophecy

The prophecy had hung over Odin's head head his whole adult life, and it was the reason that he had put off having children for a long time. All the years that he'd been married to Frigga, in fact, and before that he'd been very careful.

Frigga knew this when they married, and she agreed, reluctantly, to remain childless. Theirs had not been a love match, and she was still punishing herself for deeds done long ago. In a way, she did not feel she even deserved a child.

But time passed, and Frigga learned to forgive herself. And from that forgiveness, yearning bloomed until it became nearly all she could think about. Every spring her spirits sank lower. Every new mother mocked her. Every year, on the first of May, she put her pride aside and asked Odin, please, if they could have a child.

And every year he said no.

But Odin watched his wife's listlessness with growing concern. He saw the longing in her eyes when a baby cried; when a child laughed; when a new mother bustled by, arms laden and preoccupied.

So one year when she asked him, he said yes. He had never seen her so overjoyed before! Her beauty was legendary, but now she practically shone like a star in the heavens.

Until it became apparent that fate was playing some kind of cruel trick on her. Because Frigga, the goddess of fertility, was barren.

And now the more he thought about it, the more he began to think that a child was a good idea. He wouldn't be around forever, at any rate- and then who would rule Asgard? And as far as prophecies went...well. They weren't written in stone, were they?

So where before he had avoided siring a child like it was the plague, now Odin found himself in the distasteful position of needing a fertility charm. He bought hundreds, from all the most famed sorcerers and enchanters, but to no avail.

Though they had not married for love, Odin had grown rather fond of Frigga. She was one of the strongest people he'd ever met, and he admired many things about her. So when he saw his wife cry- that was it. He decided to seek the Norns for help.

The Norns were the overseers of the fates of all, and to ask their advice one had to travel to where the roots of the great Ash tree Yggdrasil grew. The Norns kept court there, chained to their post as they were forever cursed to make sure Nidhogg, the dragon, kept gnawing the roots of the tree. All manner of wild creature roamed the branches, and serpents wound around it's limbs, their fangs dripping venom onto those below.

Naturally, this had made the Norns quite cranky and unpleasant, so when people came to ask their advice, they demanded something in payment. It was always something that was held dear and was hard to part with, not something that the Norns themselves necessarily needed.

Thus. when Odin approached he was wary. The tales he had heard of the great dragon still could not have prepared him for how massive the beast was face to face. Odin was no bigger than one of it's great, blind, eyes. Smoke poured from it's nostrils with every breath and it did not lift it's head from it's task once while Odin was there- it's snout buried in the roots of the tree, tearing and chewing metalically with a ferocious enthusiasm.

But Odin had faced many fearsome things in battle, and he did not even blink an eye at it.

The Norns watched him come, silently- almost hungrily.

They had once been Asgardian goddesses, but they were so twisted now by time and by the serpents' acid that they could no longer be called such. Their flesh was as wrinkled and shriveled as an old apple, and discolored and scarred all over. Their hair was long and wiry where they had any; their bald, discolored skulls shining through the patches.

One was blind, her eyes as milky white as Nidhogg's. Another was deaf, according to the tales, and her eyes were sharp and predatory. The third was said to be driven mad. Once the fairest of them all, she could no longer decipher between the present, past, and future but lived in a world of her own inside her mind.

And between the three of them, they saw all the fates of the worlds.

Odin stood before them, mind frozen in awe for a moment. These were the figures of the stories he'd been told as a child.

"Oh fates," he said, bowing his head with respect. "I have come before thee to beg a boon-"

"Yes, yes," the one in the middle said impatiently. The blind one. "We know this."

The mad one cocked her head to the side. Odin had stared death in the eyes on many occasions and he had never flinched, but her stare made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

"The great All-father seeks a spell to make him a real father," she said, and laughter came bubbling up from her as it might from a child when faced with something particularly delightful. "So much pain," she smiled dreamily at him, her pale blue eyes staring at him with interest. "The woman cries," she breathed, "with such longing. She will die of it." She shook her head. "Poor Frigga," she crooned, though she had a twisted smile. "She can never quite get what she wants, can she?"

The blind one smacked her sister across the face, and she yelped and then started giggling.

"Enough," the blind one snapped at her. "You're being more creepy than usual."

Odin pushed on. "Can you help me then? Can my wife have a child?"

The blind one seemed to be the leader, and she sent him a disgusted look now.

"You gods," she said with a curl of her lip. "You are all the same. You believe you are the exception even when one of our prophecies- which come with a 100% guarantee of accuracy, by the way- state that you will regret it should you continue in your foolishness." She spat at his feet as if to tell him what she thought of that, and Odin swallowed back his annoyance at such an indignity.

"But," she said, her blind eyes staring at him blankly, "If you are sure that you want a child, there is a way."

Odin thought of Frigga, laying in bed, facing the wall and curled into herself, silent sobs wracking her body.

"Tell me."

"Well then," the blind one said, a conniving smile growing on their face. "We can help you. In fact, I have in my hand here," she produced a small vial that glowed pink, "the answer to your problem."

"What is it?" Odin asked doubtfully.

"It's a potion to fix your wife's ovaries," she snapped. "Duh. Now do you want it or not?" She tapped her toes impatiently.

"Yes!" Odin exclaimed. "I've told you- I do!"

She glared at him and his anger instantly deflated at the look in her eyes.

"I don't care for your tone," she said, the words all the more threatening for how mildly she had said them.

He apologized and asked what they wanted in exchange for the vial.

"An- ouch!" The mad one shrieked as the blind one smacked her face again.

"Not yet!" the blind one snapped at her. "That's another time, you twit."

The mad one rubbed her cheek, looking at the blind one with a pout that was horrifying on her dried, cracked lips.

"I don't understand," Odin said with confusion.

"You'll see," the blind one said with a knowing smile. "Or perhaps you won't." This made the mad one laugh hysterically. "No, this time we ask of you-"

"The child," the deaf one said, speaking for the first time, her voice like the rattle of a tree's branches in the night. "You must give up the first child that your wife bears."

Odin paled. "I can't do that," he said.

"Well, then we can't help you," the blind one snapped at him. "Thanks for wasting our time. Goodbye."

Odin stood frozen in place. "That's it?" he asked.

"Do you not get how this works?" The blind one asked testily. "You ask for something, we tell you what it costs. If you don't want to pay the price then you can't have what you came for. Therefore, you have no reason to be here. Therefore therefore: leave."

"Wait-" he swallowed. Frigga could have other children. She would be fine. It would hurt her, but she would get past the loss and in the end she would be happier for it. "I'll do it."

"Great," the blind one said brightly. She handed him the vial, and Odin stopped the reflexive gag that caught in his throat when their fingers touched. "In that case, have your wife drink this during the next full moon, do your thing, and in nine months I guarantee you will have a perfectly normal baby. Then I want you to take that baby, put it in a basket, and send it down the river."

"Send it down the river?" Odin asked in horror. "Surely not!"

"Oh. Whoops," she said. "Forget that last part. That's an old Midgardian thing. New order: take the baby and give it to a family out in the borders of your kingdom, and don't tell them whose baby it is. You can tell your wife whatever you want- tell her it died if you like. It may as well have, because if it doesn't grow up away from court then bad things will happen. Capisce?"

Odin nodded.

"Then be gone with you," the blind one said, shooing him off.

"Until next time," the mad one said dreamily.

Next time. As if Odin would ever go back. Still, he'd gotten what he came for, even if it had certainly been a steep price to pay.

He told Frigga of his fortune when he returned and she thanked him from the depths of her heart.

They followed the Norns' instructions, and indeed, nine months later a healthy baby boy was born. Frigga christened him Baldr.

Odin felt as though he were committing one of the gravest of atrocities, but he gritted his teeth and did it anyways: he told Frigga that the baby had died as she slept off the effects of the birth, and he made sure it was sent to a family on the edges of Asgard, as the Norns had said to do.

Frigga had wept until she had no more tears, and she refused to eat or sleep for weeks. But just when Odin felt he would have to do something drastic, a sudden change came over her.

She refused to speak of Baldr, and pretended to know nothing of him when Odin tried to explain how sorry he was that it had happened. She started eating again, and sleeping, and she visited the needy with more frequency, immersing herself in the constant motion of the city.

The next May, she asked if she could have a child, and again Odin said yes. Again, she was overjoyed.

Odin breathed a sigh of relief that all was back to normal.

Nine months after that, Thor was born. Never had a baby been more doted on. Never had Odin seen Frigga so happy.

When Thor was six years old, Asgard entered into a war against Jotunheim that took all of his attention. When the long war was at last won and he came across a baby, abandoned in the snow, he thought of the prophecy- and, truly, it looked so helpless and small laying there. So out of place in the harsh realm of Jotunheim.

What could he do? He brought it home with him, marveling that the baby's blue, patterned skin turned pale at his first touch.

He had thought that Frigga would be pleased to raise another child, but she was less than enthusiastic at first. When questioned, all she would say was that Frost Giants were not to be trusted. But when Odin said that he could make sure someone else raised the baby, she would not hear of it. She could not stop staring at the baby.

"You're different," she said, holding him up before her. Already he had a cap of inky black hair, and his green eyes gazed back at her own cornflower blue ones soulfully. "Aren't you, Loki?" The baby spit up on her chest, and Frigga smiled even as she wiped herself off with a towel.

And so Loki and Thor grow up as brothers, close despite their competitiveness. Odin watched Loki for signs that he would give away his being a Frost Giant, but he appeared to not even be aware of , and Odin saw no reason to enlighten him.

All was calm.