Angrboða watched him through her diamond mirror, caught by his unexpected grace.
She had been spying on Asgard; a cautionary habit and source of amusement for her. To her mind the majority of Odin's folk were arrogant and overbearing; clumsy as bears if not as powerful. She'd dealt with the men of Asgard before, and through the centuries they of a kind—gods yes, but still brutish at times, and lacking reason when moved to battle.
But this one . . . something about his straight stance and mocking smile caught her eye, and Angrboða felt a stirring within her. This son of the Allfather must have been born in shadow, she decided. He lacked the sunny glint of gold in his hair, and although he smiled, his eyes never did, and he stood apart much of the time.
The mirror did not bring her voices, so for a long time he had no name, and she called him the Shadow. It seemed to fit; he was always just behind the golden son, often forgotten and quiet. The only person who gave him any consideration was the Allfather's wife Frigga—She who is Beloved. Angrboða respected her, grudgingly; the daughter of Fjörgynn was worthy by lineage and power. It was clear that the Allfather's wife favored this dark child, and shared with him her knowledge of magic. He seemed to be an apt pupil, Angrboða noted with interest.
Intrigued, she sent birds to spy, and when they returned they brought her a name: Loki.
She continued to watch, seeing him grow from a colt-legged young one to a tall youth, straight as an ash spear. Angrboða saw that he chose to clothe himself in green, which was interesting. The Allfather himself favored gold and red; colors associated with victorious battle and treasure, and the golden son did as well, beaming brightly with it. But Loki had chosen green, a shade that had more complicated connections. Green meant fertility and abundance, yes, but it was also the color of sickness and decay. There were touches of gold to his wardrobe, enough to mark him as a prince, but not nearly as much as his brother wore.
Gold did not suit him, she thought. He was born for silver, pale and cold as the moon.
As she watched, Angrboða saw Loki watching, and approved. He had a quick mind and quick tongue, and although his demeanor seemed mild, it was but a disguise, like the hilt covering a very sharp dagger. He caused friction without seeming to, and stood back to see the results, careful not to let his amusement show.
And his daring! Over time Angrboða watched the second son of Odin learn his true hrímþursarlineage, and put into motion his plan to destroy Jotunheim, deftly manipulating those around him with soft words and cold actions. And finally, when he hung wounded and defeated from the broken Bifrost, refusing to accept the Allfather's condemnation, Angrboða nearly wept. Such boldness, such pride!
This one would be worthy.
She acted swiftly. Moving through the Iron-wood towards the west, Angrboða flew her twisted wood chariot high across the skies, letting her giant ravens pull her upwards with their huge wings, and when she reached the edge of the Bifrost Angrboða cloaked herself in smoke, keeping Heimdahl's vision from seeing her. It took a while to find the shadow son, drifting as he was, his moss cloak wrapping around him in shroud folds. His eyes were closed and he seemed dead but she knew better.
Loki, son of Laufey, was a child of rock and stone and would survive the cold of space.
Angrboða reached up for him, catching him by an ankle and pulled him into the chariot. A simple command to her ravens and they turned, wheeling the smoke-draped dark chariot back to Iron-Wood as she spun a net of fine spider-silk and wrapped her treasure within it.
-oo00oo-
It would take a while for him to recover from the cold, but she was patient, and there were other matters to attend to. Angrboða knew the Allfather would search at his wife's bidding; that even Loki's crimes would not, could not break his bond to Frigga and more distantly to the rest of the family.
But the Allfather would not come here, to the Iron-Wood. Perhaps the golden son might, but it would be easy to turn his mind and thoughts to another direction if it came to that. For the moment, Angrboða contented herself with having her badger servants clean the dark hall as she readied a welcoming feast for her guest.
The table held much and enchantments kept it fresh. Angrboða took care in dressing herself, choosing grey silk with amber embroidery to honor the Iron-Wood around her. As she prepared herself she thought about how best to proceed. The very air of the hall was tinted with destiny, a dark perfume that made her hum with pleasure as she rose from her chambers and made her way to where the princeling lay cold and still on the fur-draped pallet with only the light of the fireplace by which to see.
His pallor pleased Angrboða, and she spent time studying his features in the dim light, noting that even when unconscious his form stayed true to that of his adopted family. Curious, she conjured a simple granite stone and pressed it to his wrist. The flare where it touched instantly became hrímþursar—Ice Giant. It faded again when she made the stone vanish, and Angrboða nodded to herself.
She sat at the foot of the pallet, waiting and watching, contenting herself with gazing upon him until he began to stir. It was a slow wakening, and Angrboða appreciated his caution; given the events of the recent past, he had much to worry about, clearly. Still, when his gaze focused and found her, she stayed still, letting him wonder and push himself up on one elbow.
"Lady," he murmured, confused but polite. Angrboða did not reply, drawing out the moment to the edge of discomfort before gently nodding.
"Where am I?" came the next question. She considered this and gave him a direct stare, making sure he held her gaze.
"You are with me, in a safe haven," Angrboða told him. "Come, you need sustenance." Not giving him a chance to say more, she rose and looked over her shoulder, aware that the firelight put her to good advantage. From what she'd seen of the shadow son, his sense of caution and courtesy would be easy to use against him here at the start.
He stood cautiously and followed her lead. Angrboða led the way to the dark hall, pleased that the badgers had done a fine job. Spiderwebs glittered with candle-drops and the heavy wooden furnishings gleamed. She took a seat at the head of the table and motioned to her side, to the only other chair. When Loki took it, Angrboða hid her smile.
"Lady, I am grateful for your hospitality, but who are you and where are we?" he asked, looking more confident now.
"We are in a wood obscured from Heimdahl's gaze by my glamour," Angrboða murmured, "and I am queen here, Prince Loki Laufeyson of Asgard."
His eyes widened and she watched him re-assess his situation. It was amusing how transparent his thoughts were as he tried to figure out which queen she must be, and coming up with no name that fit his knowledge. Finally he went for charm. "Forgive me but even as you know who I am, I know you not, your majesty."
Angrboða smiled. She picked up the silver pitcher and filled the two drinking horns with dark wine, drawing out the action before speaking in a soft voice. "In time you shall know me very well, oh maker of mischief. I am called by many names, but the most used is She Who Brings Grief."
She waited to see if that brought any recognition to his expression and was gratified when it did. Loki blinked and frowned; clearly what he has been told did not match what he saw before him, and that played well into her favor. "But you are not . . ."
"Not a hideous troll-wife, heavy as a boulder and covered with moss? No, I am not, little hrímþursar prince," Angrboða murmured in amusement. She passed one drinking horn to him and took her own, lifting it in a toast. "Yet another lie told to you. Drink; the wine is warming."
She noticed he didn't drink until she had. Cautious, and rightly so, Angrboða thought, and smiled. The wine was strong; a rich red made all the darker by blackcurrant and plum. Loki tried not to cough.
Endearing.
Angrboða set her horn down and looked at him. "You have been told tales all your life to keep you from wandering, to keep you safe. Some of those tales are true, but some have been lies, Princeling. Now that you know your lineage, and that Odin will always choose your brother over you, isn't it time to learn what else there is to know?"
He flinched. Angrboða knew her words pressed the wounds on his heart yet Loki, this fallen son, had the strength to deal with them. It took a moment for him to regain his composure, but when he looked at her, Angrboða nodded, and smiled.
"Why did you save me?"
"That is a very good question, son of stone. I saved you because prophecy said I should, and I am not one to defy that which has been decreed. But," she added, "I have been watching you for a long time, so even if it was not destiny for us to meet, I would have arranged it even so. You are a beautiful creature in this form or your other. I appreciate beauty."
Loki blushed. This was a delightful reaction and Angrboða again let the moment stretch out as she noted the high color across his cheekbones. He was uncomfortable but not completely at a loss since he smiled. "Forgive me; I am not used to receiving flattery."
"I know," Angrboða murmured. "Silver-tongued one. Come, eat and we will talk more afterwards."
His manners were excellent, and for a while they dined in silence. Angrboða kept her expression mild to put Loki at ease, but he remained slightly guarded even after more wine. When the meal was over, she rose and moved to the two chairs near the great fireplace at the far end of the hall. The flames had died down to a hellish red glow, leaving just enough light to see by, and Angrboða seated herself, waving her guest to the other chair. He took it, settling in with a hint of impatience.
"The hour grows late and I know you need rest," she told him. "But first I want you to see this."
Angrboða brought her hands up and drew them apart, allowing the gap between them to bring forth the stone. It caught the gleam of the firelight and sent sparkles across the shadow son's face, speckling him with starpoints.
Oh she had his attention now, all his impatience gone as he studied the gem, curiosity and covertness clear on his thin face. "What is it?"
"It is called the Singasteinn, young prince, and holds tremendous magic," Angrboða told him quietly. "Some say it is the egg of a mermaid. Others say it is mother of the seas." Between her palms the heavy pearl gleamed like a small moon, and a faint hum sang in the air; voices chanting like waves rolling onto a beach.
"It's . . ." words failed he who had never been at a loss for them, and Angrboða nearly chuckled at that. The Singasteinn was the prize of her collection, nearly on par with Brisingamen in terms of beauty, but beyond that much more. Freya's necklace held no magic; the Singasteinn however . . .
"This gem holds the power to heal wounds and keep its owner alive in water, air or void, little prince. The wielder may move among the stars in the sky or across any strange world, or even among the monsters of any sea with ease. Those who have magic may do these things too of course, but only after centuries of practice. With this stone, all that is provided."
Reluctantly Loki pulled his gaze from the enchanting stone and looked over the top of it, at her. Angrboða spoke again. "I will not give it to you, Loki, Laufeyson, prince of Asgard. But I will trade it in a very specific agreement. A barter, if you will."
He smiled then, dimples deep, the mask she had so often seen him wear before—the sweet and unassuming expression that fooled so many. "I . . . I have nothing to trade, your majesty. As you know I am outcast from Asgard and without the treasure such a prize would require."
"Treasure is nothing to me," Angrboða assured him. "I have gold and jewels enough to serve my needs."
"Ah." This seemed to set him back, and she waited for him to work the puzzle out. He drew his brows together and pondered the matter for a few moments more before murmuring, "Service, then. A deed done, a quest undertaken?"
Angrboða smiled.
She moved her hands together and the Singasteinn disappeared, snuffed away like a candle flame. Loki blinked, and the faint spell of the moment faded, leaving the two of them in the firelight, facing each other.
"Tomorrow I will demonstrate that what I have told you is true; that the Singasteinn will keep you alive in all places. When you are satisfied that it does, then we can discuss terms. Is this agreeable?"
"What if is not?" Loki countered.
Angrboða moved like smoke, slipping from her chair to her knees, hands resting on those long thighs of his as she leaned into his face, drifting close and feeling the power of his surprise, of his quickened heart and wide pupils. Her lips hovered within a breath of his, perfumed with the fruit wine. "You are right to fear me, sweet prince. Good night."
With a soft chuckle, Angrboða rose and glided away to her bower, well-pleased.