Chapter 3
That evening, the waitstaff signaled that it was time for supper in the main dining hall. Usually, Loki had taken to eating alone in his chambers, bored with the social gaiety that comes with family dinners. However, they had guests over, as it was Sunday (a tradition of this broken family), and he would show up, if for nothing but to see his plan into action.
He sat down at the north end of the massive dining table, leaving the end seat for his brother, as was custom. Sif sat down next to Loki, followed by Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral. On the south end of the table sat Odin and their mother Frigga, and—was that Baldr sitting at the far end, with his wife Nanna? No, it couldn't be…. There were other aunts and uncles and cousins and distant relatives, to fill the empty seats, but Loki hadn't met them before, and he simply couldn't care less.
As the meal commenced, Loki pulled out a small device from his breast pocket, a carved wooden thing with golden inlays, and put it to his lips, blowing softly, the sound unaudible to anyone else. Soon, he heard the light clickety-clack of nails on the floor, and sure enough, Trygve came prancing up to Loki's seat. He took a sip of mead, pretending not to notice the dog. This was all part of his plan, and he smirked slightly against his glass. Little did he know Fritjof was also under the table, sitting stoically by Thor, staring bullets into Trygve. The dog began to growl at the feline, who glared in return, nearly ready to pounce.
Nonchalantly, Loki reached a hand down to calm the dog, but he missed completely. The growling had also ceased. Confused, he looked down, but did not see his pet anywhere. Looking up, his brother had a wicked grin on his face, one perhaps rivaling his own. He watched as his brother took bits of food—roasted ham, to be precise—and held it under the table, never looking away from Loki. What was he doing, indeed? Fritjof couldn't possibly…
When it dawned on him, his brother's smirk became wider. His precious hound, whom he had grown terribly fond of, was being fed scraps by the cat-lover. With any more, he would become overweight, and simply not scary enough to deter that damned cat! This was—this was a travesty! Completely unacceptable!
"How dare you feed my pet food, of which he doesn't need!" said Loki, standing up, his chair shooting from behind him. The conversation at the table froze, all eyes cast upon him.
"I was merely saving the staff some trouble by cleaning off my plate," said Thor calmly.
Loki took a deep breath. "Very well. If you'll excuse me." He nodded to the rest of the table. "Trygve, kennel!" he ordered, snapping his fingers in the direction of his chambers. The dog obeyed, whimpering with its tail between its legs. He followed, deliberately knocking his chair over in the process.
He felt like breaking something—an expensive looking urn on a pedestal seemed the best candidate—or maybe even killing something. His fists tightened and his scowl deepened. Oh, how his brother infuriated him! Thor always had to have what Loki deserved. The throne, the girls, and now his only companion. He ushered the dog into its kennel and then stomped off to his chambers. He slammed the massive door shut behind him, and with a snap of his fingers, all the lanterns and candles were lit. He turned around and stopped dead in his tracks.
There it was. That damned cat.
It lay there on his bed, staring menacingly in his direction, probably shedding black fur all over the forest green satin sheets. He would have to call the maids, order them to clean this room, twice over, and even then, he wasn't sure that he could ever sleep in this room again. He simply wasn't a cat person.
Why must this creature follow me? he asked himself. How did it even get in here? Much less arrive before me? He stopped and held his arm up to his face, a sneeze impending. Luckily it subsided. Of course, now I'm allergic to the damn thing. Loki took one quick step towards the cat, and he let out an awful hiss, firmly claiming the territory as his own. Loki slowed his approach tenfold, for fear of being mauled once again.
"Shh…" Loki found himself cooing to the animal, which temporarily disgusted him as he neared cautiously, step by anxious step, until he could lay a hand gingerly upon the creature's back. This time Fritjof did not hiss. His coat was strangely soft, and he stroked it gently. Fritjof did not recoil under his touch, as he had initially suspected, and instead, seemed to be enjoying the attention, letting out a soft purr.
Loki retracted his arm rapidly, for he could feel the vibrations emanating from the cat's belly, and thought he might be hurting it. But as soon as he pulled away, the low rumbling stopped, and Fritjof looked at him expectantly. He had never owned a cat before, and, taking this as a sign of content, resumed petting the creature, even sitting down next to it on the edge of the bed.
"Perhaps you're not as bad as I thought," he said to the cat, and did not expect an answer.
Swiftly and quietly, he left to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of milk for his newfound companion.