This procession, Loki reflected, was painfully, unbearably slow. He understood the use of it, of course: the census that his sire's agents conducted in each village they passed; Laufey's gift to the bumpkins of catching a glimpse of royalty, to keep their awe too great for the annoyance of a peasant revolt; the inspection and upkeep of the roads (to list but a few advantages).
It did little to stem the cultivated boredom that sunk into his bones, watching the unending festivals that lined each outpost and warren carved into valleys of soft-ice, different from the hard-ice of the road or the snow-ice of the farms. His ears ached from the steady beating of the gungir drums and the occasional bellowing once the peasants straightened, the royal family having passed and the noblemen beginning. Jotnar were not known for their revelry—Loki knew his people to be a silent one, compared to those of Nornheim or, Hel forbid, the Asgardians—but when they did find cause to celebrate, they made more noise than was seemly.
Once every four years the nobles made this trip, the adults riding their litters and the children their three-toed nynkle elks. A boy held a garland of rare cavern herbs ahead of him, straight-backed and proud as he clung with his legs to the elk's thick red fur, which Loki had always found an eyesore. Jotunheim was blues and greens, muted colors. Nynkle elks were far too bright. Ahead of him rode Býleistr and Helbindi on one platform, Býleistr managing to look important and Helbindi only attempting to.
Loki ran his fingers through the fur of Litner, his dire-wolf, an import from Nornheim who looked at the moment particularly wind-stung. His eyes fell on Laufey, who had lost the Casket all those years ago yet still managed to look regal. The king puffed his chest so his ridges, exaggerated by dye, were read more easily by the crowd.
Loki's eyes skated over the farms they passed through. The algae fields that balanced his people's diet cast a strange glow over the faces of the thralls who tilled them. On the arching palanquin he rode, carried on the strong backs of noble warriors who had fought to curry favor with a prince, Loki was surprised that such a beautiful shade of green could come from such a base and common thing.
Loki sprawled amid his furs and splendor, watching the peasantry bow to him, the women with their woven dreadlocks tied with string and hung with bone amulets, babes slung over their backs, the men bald with their hands gnarled from years of labor.
None dared to do more than glance at the halfbreed prince from behind their eyelashes, once they realized his presence. Their hoes rested near the deeper furrows, uncertain as their owners.
Loki had little eye for any but the colors of the algae that would be harvested in but a few turns of the planet, cut into mats, dried, and turned into breads and stews, the coarser roots boiled until they came apart in a stringy mess, hardened into tough cakes that would feed the thralls and the animals alike.
Loki was pleased that this was the final day on this swaying litter, before the fawning masses. He looked forward to Utgard, the royal warren, and his own room with a smile.
