You refuse to cry on your wedding day.
There's a vulgar knock at your bedchamber door, eradicating the mantra that was repeating in your head.
Do not cry.
The door opens to reveal an aged nurse. "M'lady," she formally curtsies and greets you with a warm smile on her face.
Do not cry.
You acknowledge the woman with a slight nod and even smaller frown. The type of frown that is typical of your home: empty and cold. Like the ruined castles and Old Gods themselves.
Do not cry.
Sitting in front of the vanity, you fidget stiffly in your new emerald gown. As you hunch over, the corset pulls tightly on your ribs, turning your scowl into a grimace.
This will pass.
As the woman tepidly makes her way over, delight surges through your veins when she ungracefully steps on the hearth. Clearly, she's not a true Æsir. She's probably nothing more than a well-bred Asgardian, plucked right from the streets. After all, a traitor's daughter is not worthy of a proper handmaiden. Even if you are to marry the prince against your will.
And soon your harsh judgement against the woman, your glee for her limitations, your vapid hate, retreats. It's not her fault you're here.
The woman stands behind you, lightly resting her wrinkled hands on your shoulders.
"Are you nervous, M'lady?" Her aged, raspy voice asks, oblivious to the emptiness within your eyes.
"Of course not, I love the Prince," You lie with a dry mouth, praying that the woman cannot hear the emptiness that seeps out.
A similar lie spews from her mouth, "And that Asgardian loves you."
"Asgardian… or Jötunn?" You implicate defiantly, staring at the woman through the foggy mirror with a spiteful smirk on your face. This sneer isn't like Vanaheim or the cold, this is laced with stubbornness and resistance that sprouts from deep within your soul.
The nurse's smile falls at the corners as her hands move to your hair. Pulling roughly on the ends, she changes the subject. "You have such beautiful hair. I am tempted to style it in the Asgardian way." Your heart plummets as the woman begins to pile the strands in a foreign way; being stripped of your dignity, heritage, and family all over again.
Then the woman sighs, letting your hair drop. "But the Vanaheim braids look so proper on you. After all, you look exactly like your father."
And with that small statement, your calm and collected demeanor shatters like the remnants of the heart that once resided in your chest. How dare she talk about him. He is yours, the last remnant of your past that meant something.
You both sit in silence as the woman deftly braids your hair in the formal Vanir style, while humming a faintly familiar tune. You wish that you don't know it. You wish that you aren't becoming like them. You wish your hold on the past could envelope you and shield you from this satire. You wish your mother was here.
Stop.
Wipe the thoughts of them from your memory. It'll be easier that way.
"Please stop," You whisper, letting your eyelids flutter shut as a last defense to keep tears away.
The woman quiets, finishing your hair. "Did your mother tell you what to expect for tonight?"
Something changes within you as you snap, "I do not have a mother."
"Not anymore," she says, taking a pin from the apron tied around her waist. "Do not expect too much. Even if his rumored reputation is true. A woman's first time is never pleasant."
"What makes you think it will be my first time?" You challenge, holding your chin high.
When putting the pin in your hair, the woman pricks your scalp, making you wince slightly. "You have a sharp tongue, M'lady. One that is best to be dulled," she warns.
The nurse reaches for your hand and pulls you to your feet, flaming the fires within you. Touching you as if it is allowed, as if she's there to be your confidant. Your second mother. The truth is simple though, you're alone and she cannot make you feel otherwise. Alone and, yet, formidable.
The lady goes back to humming the dreadful tune from earlier, only making your resolve stronger.
You clench your fists to fight the temper that is sure to exude from your being. The woman pulls a golden veil over your head then grabs your clamped hands, "Remember who the real enemy is, my dear."
Your gaze snaps to the woman's eyes, shocked to find her creased eyes are colored like your own. Before compassion could take hold, you pull away, pivoting to look out the window as the birds sing. Desperately, you wish to sprout wings and leave this place.
The woman then continues to the door humming the tune as if it means something. She turns at the door back to face you. "Lang Lewe Vanir."
Long live Vanaheim.
Your head swivels sharply only to find the door shut. The woman disappears, leaving you alone with only terrorizing memories.
"I do not want to marry the Prince," You spat to your father, folding arms over your chest.
"Sweetheart," father sighed, sitting on his chair in the corner of the room. "Sometimes there are things you must do for the sake of your people. Even if you do not want to do it."
You shook your head in utter disbelief. Tears welled, threatening to spill from your eyes. This wasn't what you planned as a child. You planned for skinned knees and dirty hemlines, you imagined the woods and trees and isolated solace. Not Asgardian buildings and packed streets and political games.
"Please do not make me," you whispered.
When he moved and sat next to you on the bed, you fell into his side, finding comfort as his arms circled your shoulders. "I cannot make you do anything, but I can urge you to do what is right and this is it." His hand smoothed over your hair and tilts your head to meet his eyes.
He looked tired. The skin around his faded eyes fold and crease like antique pages. In that moment, you didn't think of your people. Of the Vanir who would prosper from this. You thought of him. Of the tiredness and age that had overwhelmed him in recent months. That was why you would do this.
"Do you truly think Thor would make a good king, father?"
His smile grew for a small moment, "I do."
If only he said the opposite, if only he told you the truth. You would have been more careful then. And maybe, just maybe, then he'd still be alive and you wouldn't be alone.
Two rasps on the door make your nervous stomach plummet and a steely resolve take its place.
The door opens to reveal him. "They thought you would prefer to have a familiar face to deliver you." The guard gestures, to himself. Your lips pull down as you stay rooted in place, hating the man in front of you.
He should not be here. He should be dead too.
"Ready, Princess?" He asks, oblivious to the violent demise you wish upon him and your title.
You were kept in a secret building, far from Court. As if a close proximity to court was toxic. Like you could disrupt the natural order of Asgardian principles if you dared stay in the same halls as your future husband.
With one last glance in the mirror, you set your lips into a familiar frown and breeze past him ready to enter the Great Temple of Æsir.
Your hands grasped your dress if only to keep them from shaking. If they want you, they can have you, but they'd never know you. They'd have your name, your body, but they'd never have your soul. Vanaheim would know that, and no political agreement could assuage the unrest there. They would keep fighting.
The halls on the way out of your royal apartment are only lined with stones and tapestries, nothing like the halls you roamed as a child. Would you ever rove through your childhood home again? Most likely not.
You are escorted to an ornate carriage, locking you in like a caged bird.
A heady scent assaults your nose as you take in the plush green and gold velvet that surrounds you. The truth chokes you then: You are about to be property of an Odinson.
People line the streets on the way to the temple, waving uncontrollably and yelling your name over and over again.
When your carriage finally delivers you to the temple, and you wait for your disloyal escort to open the door. After a moment of fumbling with the keys, you are released from your cage. You exhale a breath and step outside only to hear that while some of the crowd cheers, others hiss.
Traitor.
They don't know who the real traitors are.
The real traitors are in the Temple.
"You're beautiful," mother said, looking you over through the mirror, as her hands finished your braid. "I've never seen a more beautiful Princess in the world. Or woman for that matter."
"You have to say that," you smiled, rolling your eyes and turning away from your reflection to face her, wishing you had an ounce of her famed beauty.
"I cannot believe you agreed to this," she stated, pride dripping from her face. You swallowed the fear that threatened to peel away your resolve. "You truly are your father's daughter."
Your eyes dropped to look past her out the window, shame creeping through you before glancing back her way. "I am your daughter too." Still, the words stung with what was not said. If she had asked you, you'd have never consented.
A heavy silence fell upon you.
"He's handsome, don't you think?" She coyly said, raising a manicured eyebrow in your direction.
A heat flamed your cheeks. Thor washandsome. With flowing blonde hair, muscular arms, and sharp blue eyes, there was only one way to describe him - unapproachably handsome. He truly was lightening, a specimen that attracted all eyes in the room. You would never be able to hide in plain sight again, at least not by his side. That alone suffocated you.
"Mother…" You trailed off, biting your lip to keep from laughing.
"You are lucky. Just think," Your mother chuckled, and upon understanding your awkward reaction, pushed an escaped lock of hair behind your ear. "You could be betrothed to his brother."
Your gaze drops, thinking about the God of Mischief. If Thor was unapproachable, his brother was intimidating. Untrustworthy. Chaotic. An unexplainable shiver ran through you at the mere thought of being intimate with him in the way you would with Thor. And before you had a moment to delve into the meaning of your body's reaction, your mother continued.
"Don't worry, darling, your paths will rarely cross."
A choir announces your arrival as the doors to the temple open. Hundreds of Asgardians have gathered for what they believe to be a joyous celebration. If only.
There is no father to walk you down the aisle, no mother to fuss over your train, just you and your future waiting at the end of the pathway.
Each step you take causes your heart to pound. You see him there, looming in a gold horned helmet and an intricate patchwork of green and black leather.
Intimidating. Chaotic. Untrustworthy. This is not who you were promised to marry. He is not Thor.
When you finally step in front of him, lifting your hand waiting for him to accept you, he barely spares you a glance before taking your palm in his.
A startling shudder runs through you at the first touch. His skin is ice, causing a spark to freeze its way through your skin.
He guides you up the alter, rotating so you are face to face. Hastily, he pulls the other hand from your side so both of your hands are clasped in his. And as the Goddess of Oaths begins to list promises you are to swear, you chance a look at him. At Loki.
Loki does not look at you, not once during the entire ceremony. His resentment is evident; a clenched jaw, pursed lips, violent green eyes. It's wafting off of him and you can do nothing but absorb it.
It mutates inside you until only bitterness is left in your mouth. Perhaps he was forced into this as much as you were.
The Goddess summons a woven rope from air, a handfasting. Three chords are pleated: Burgundy for love, Gold for unity, and Green for fertility. She wraps the rope around your embraced hands, explaining its significance and ties it tightly. Like your hands, your lives are now bound together of your own free will.
Before you even know what is happening, Loki is emotionlessly listing commitments.
"I, Prince Loki of Asgard, God of Mischeif, Odinson," he pauses, pinning a cold glance to Odin standing as witness to the side, then forces his head towards you again. "Pledge to provide and care for you in weariness and doubt. I will forsake all others, to respect you in strength and wisdom for my remaining days."
As he concludes, some of the crowd whispers. No doubt surprised that the Prince, Trickster, God of Mischief, has actually condemned himself to a life with you. That he didn't pawn his way out of this commitment.
"I," you begin only to halt immediately, panic striking through you. Were you still royalty if your family was found guilty of treason? Were you still a crowned princess, or was the title ripped from you like your family was?
Suddenly, Loki's hand squeezes yours, breaking you from your reverie. Your gaze locks on him, though he still looks past you, his features have softened slightly. "I pledge to obey and trust you in weariness and doubt. I will commit myself to you, forsaking all others in respect of your strength and wisdom for my remaining days."
Your eyes drop to the ropes, when, by your surprise, the rope seemingly glistens as if it is absorbing the vows.
Odin steps forward and nimbly removes the binding with a flick of his wrist. You watch as Loki's face hardens when his father's hands hover over his own, tense and waiting for a touch that never comes.
His voice booms loudly through the walls, "Allow the Gods from Valhalla bless this union."
With that cue, Loki removes his hands from yours and reach for your veil. You hold your breath as fear returns, realizing for the first time how calm his touch made you. As he lifts the golden tulle over your head, you keep your eyes trained on his face waiting for him to look at you. When he finally does, his eyes gloss over with dullness. It is like he isn't even in front of you.
Like you're not in front of him.
As Odin says the last condemning words, Loki's chilled fingers grasp your chin and he tilts your head closer. When he leans down, he pauses a mere inch from your face and visibly swallows, allowing his eyes a moment to rove over your skin. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips. His breath fans against your mouth. Your eyelids shut automatically.
This will be easier in darkness.
For a second, you swear that Loki's fingers trace a comforting design on your cheek. In truth, it was probably your imagination.
Then his lips slant over yours. Chilling. Chastely. Somewhere beyond this moment, a crowd begins to cheer and clap. Though, you're too distracted to even lend them a thought.
His fingers press into your jaw, hard, imploring your mouth to move against his, but before you even get the chance to, he retreats and straightens, leaving you wanting. You release a stuttering breath as you open your eyes.
Then, he swiftly turns to face the crowd, pulling your hand in his and encouraging you to mimic his position. It gives you the first moment to look at them. Cheering, crying, shocked.
You are one of them now.
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