Loki woke again, blinking slowly at the gentle sunlight pouring through the window. He almost believed he'd been dreaming, save for the fact that this was not his room, and not his bed.
The room, much like the hall he'd been in before, was gold plated brick from floor to ceiling, the bed had red velvet sheets. His leather armor hung on a tall wooden cabinet along the wall, intact and bloodless. His hair, un-slicked, fell along his face as he sat up. He pushed it back behind his ears, looking out the window at the seemingly endless hilly meadows. This scene, and the woman, were so familiar to him yet he couldn't seem to place it all. He was dead, he was clearly dead and that much he knew. He was not in Hell, though likely meant for it. And if he was not with his father, who watched over Valhalla, then he must be in Folkvang.
He stood, his bare feet hitting the cold floor with resistance. He looked down at himself, naked, the place where a gaping wound should have been only an ugly scar remained. He touched it, no pain came from the place but he felt the echo of it, remembered watching his blood trickle from his hands, feeling the touch of that woman, the falcon. He remembered now where she was from.
The goddess who watched over Folkvang, her name was Freya. She was painted on the walls of a hall of Asgard, standing in that white cloak with her arms held out like wings over golden hills.
"Welcome to the hall of the dead, Loki of Asgard."
He turned around quickly, defensively, toward the voice at his door. It was her, her eyes staring unabashed at him in his glory. He grabbed the velvet sheet, wrapped himself in it hastily.
"I suppose knocking is not a custom here," he replied, his voice surprisingly hoarse. Her eyes moved to his armor hanging beside him.
"Wear, or do not wear. You are dead, it matters not," she answered, her eyes moving slowly back to him.
"Thank you for the reminder," he muttered, grasping for his armor. She continued to stare at him curiously.
"I would prefer to wear before we speak, if it's all the same to you," he said as firmly as his weakened voice would allow. She turned, her cloak billowing behind her, and was gone on the spot, the door closing behind her quietly.
He dressed quickly, finding his boots just outside the door in the hallway, shined and neat looking. In fact his entire set of leather armor had been polished, and gleamed fresh and prideful as he walked down the hall. The narrow hall connected to a dining area, where many people sat calmly eating from a feast of foods. A few turned toward him, no faces that seemed to know they were in the presence of a prince. Though his stomach grumbled and he wondered why, he continued on through the dining hall and into the great hall, where his scar panged uncomfortably in remembrance of his father's weeping and broken frame. She sat upon a glistening golden throne that looked liquid in it's brilliance, speaking quietly with a woman draped in the armor of an Asgardian Valkyrie. She turned, spotting Loki across the hall, and dropped to her knee.
"My lord," she said, her sword resting on her bent knee before him as he approached.
"You may stand, Hildr," Freya said, taking her by the arm and leading her to her feet.
"It is only our custom," Loki said, feeling a bit slighted. He was used to royal attention, despite his numerous betrayals of Asgard, the people still knelt for him. He shook the notion away, he needed to remain passive. If he did not, she may not answer any of his questions.
"There are no hierarchical rulings in Folkvang, though it is rare for us to receive someone of your worldly status," Freya stated, letting go the arm of the Valkyrie, who stood tall and sheathed her sword.
"May I ask why I am here, and not in Valhalla."
She titled her head slightly, bearing semblance to the falcon, her eyes again curious upon him.
"Odin did not tell you?" she asked.
"Of the bargain?" he replied. She nodded.
"My father keeps secrets better than anyone I know," he answered plainly, recalling the recent panful knowledge of his own parentage.
"Your adoptive mother," she said, eyeing him attentively as she spoke "was meant for my kingdom, and was graciously given to Odin to reside in Valhalla in exchange for a son, upon your death. Though you may recall him not truly wishing to part with you."
"I am not his son," he answered automatically, the disdain in his voice clear. She smiled a little.
"Ah, but you refer to yourself so readily as such. Prince Loki of Asgard, the god of mischief, so burdened with glorious purpose it overfloweth into the nine realms." She rose her arms as she spoke, the blood on her robes becoming again visible, her wincing pain stopping her from her mockery.
"You don't heal, you receive in exchange. What kind of magic is this, that you must suffer?" he reached for his own scar, mirrored in hers. She continued her smile.
"You'd rather bear this burden again yourself?"
"It is my burden to bear, glorious or otherwise," he replied quickly. She laughed, wincing again.
"A sharp tongue," she commented, pulling the string bow on her neck that held her white cloak around her. She pulled it away, revealing a simple, plain white gown that swept the floor beyond her feet. It clung to her frame, the same bloodied spot just below her chest seemed to be receding little by little. She moved with grace despite it, reaching level place with him in the hall. He bowed his head to her, the Asgardian sign of respect. Two soft fingers touched his chin and raised his head, draping him in the familiar warmth of her touch.
"I have watched you for some time. The heartache you brought your mother, your treasonous nature toward your would-be home, the betrayal time and again of your loving and trusting brother. Yet you die for him, you win him his battle and lose yourself your war. And you come here, plighted to me, and bow your head as though you are capable of respect?"
"Plighted… to you?" he repeated. That had not been what she had said before. Her smile widened a bit, no longer as serene and more like his, mischievous.
"The agreement was betrothal. The hall had hoped for Thor, but you will do," she said, stepping back from him. He was definitely not his brother, not burled and overly muscled, bull-headed or blonde. He was starkly contrasted, as much as she was to his mother. Tall, slender, raven black shoulder length hair pin straight. A piece of it rejected placement behind his pointed ear and fell into his face. Before he could reflexively brush it away, she did, taking with it the warmth of her touch and leaving him with the cold loathing of being compared to his brother. Betrothal to the goddess Freya. He thought quickly on the pairing. He too would watch over Folkvang, perhaps even have first say in the warriors who would walk these halls. An army of the strongest, proudest warriors of the nine realms. A dead army.
"Why did I not go to Hel?" he asked. She seemed not to expect this question, and he himself had only pondered it for a moment before speaking.
"She does not have a place in the bidding war of a hero's soul," she replied. Loki nearly flinched. A hero. How quickly the tables had turned for him. Something brought him back to his mother, her final words to him.
Always so perceptive of everyone but yourself…
"I am no hero," he said quietly.
"You are like your brother."
"No!" he snapped back, his anger getting the best of him. The echo of his voice filled the vast hall, cast a hundred chairs that lined it into the walls behind them, the clatter causing even the steel-nerved Valkyrie to falter. Freya did not blink.
"I know it was a reflex, not a conscious choice to save Thor. It is not some grandiose, planned act that creates a hero. It is a moment when your courage in the fight and your reflexes in practice meet and fear, though present, is nothing compared to the possibility of victory."
"You speak much on something you know little about whilst you sit up here in your golden hills on your golden throne," he replied coarsely.
"You think I know nothing of war?" she asked, her tone dropping into one of equal frustration "You forget where I come from, then. Or did no one teach you on that snow-ridden wasteland of a realm you were laid to die upon?"
"You forget your manners. Freya was the first of us," the Valkyrie, Hildr, spoke up "Freya fought alongside Odin in the first battles. It was Odin's doing she-"
"-Enough!" Freya commanded, her voice ringing as much as Loki's had. All the chairs he'd knocked down floated back into place with a series of soft thuds. She spun around and was gone, the length of her gown where it did not cling to her body the last part to sweep away as she disappeared.
"You are a fool and it is no wonder you are here," Hildr spat at him, standing straight.
Loki hesitated, standing in the hall for a moment to process everything. He had, once again, been sold up the river by his father. Yet again, he was a pawn in his political dealings. As such, he was now betrothed to the queen of the Valkyrie, the goddess Freya, whom it seemed he had just had a falling out with. Not to mention, he was dead.
"Can't catch a break," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair, "not even in the afterlife."
