Odin cradled the infant in his big hands as if it were his own.
Frigga knew the babe. She didn't even need to see his small, pink, wrinkled face. He was so tiny, so delicate for the child of a frost giant, and she knew he had not been good enough for Laufey. Too much like his mother. Or perhaps it was simply that Jotunheim's king hated his conqueror's people so much that he would not have even a babe he had sired on his ravaged world.
At least not alive.
"This jotun child," Odin said in his gruff, weary voice, "was left alone to die. He seems different from most frost giants—smaller, weaker. Perhaps that is why he was exposed."
"He does seem … helpless," she murmured.
"I thought you might care for him, soft-hearted as you are." He smiled at her, deep lines radiating out from his good eye. A cut on his forehead, just under the rim of his helmet, was just beginning to heal. "I have already assured that no one will recognize him as jotun. "
"He was … he appeared—"
"Like a frost giant, of course. It was a simple matter to alter the color of his skin and eyes and smooth his skin. Remarkably simple, in fact. One might almost think he was not fully jotun."
Unable to move, Frigga stared at the boy. She waited for condemnation, but none came. Odin was oblivious to her feelings.
He didn't know. He hadn't guessed.
And why should he? He could see so much with his one eye, and yet he did not recognize her guilt. Or the pain that seared her heart.
"If you can manage him and he adapts well here," Odin said, "he will be raised alongside our own son. He may prove useful in the future."
Frigga swallowed. His tone was so matter-of-fact, as if he could easily see how such a child could be used to the benefit of Asgard. Raised to be loyal to Asgard alone, and to the All-father.
Raised by his own true mother.
"It would be a good to have a son who might one day rule Jotunheim for us," she said, keeping her tone perfectly level.
"That has been in my mind since I took him. If he is worthy, he shall never know what he is. Not until he is old enough to understand."
"You are merciful, husband."
"I am practical. But I did admire his determination to survive."
As all Asgardians did. Strength, endurance, courage … these things were traits most highly respected by Odin's people.
And already this babe had displayed all three.
"Give him to me," she said, holding out her arms.
Odin passed the infant over willingly enough, as if he was glad to be rid of the tiny burden. Frigga did everything possible not to break down and weep. The babe's skin seemed so cold that the chill seeped through her clothing and into her breast. She could already feel the change in herself, her body reacting to his need.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for trusting me with this responsibility."
"Who else?" he asked. "What you do in the next few months will determine his fate."
"Surely … surely you would not—"
"I would not have saved him had I intended to kill him." He sighed. "I am weary," he said, his deep voice faltering. "I will see the healers, and then return to see how you fare with the boy." He kissed her cheek. "Until tonight."
Frigga bowed her head in respect and watched him leave, his body bent with pain and exhaustion. She didn't move until he had departed her chamber and his escort had fallen in around him. Then she looked down.
The babe gazed into her eyes as if he could see her as well as an older child. His own eyes were blue, like those of any infant, but there was a hint of green in them. He lifted one delicate hand to pat her face.
He knew her, too.
She lifted him close to her face so that her cheek touched his. "My son," she whispered. "I thought never to see you again."
Burbling softly, the infant nestled into her as if he had found his true home. A survivor. A fighter who had refused to die when all the odds were against him. Not at all like Thor, and yet she knew in her heart that one day he would be as formidable as Odin's son.
"I will teach you," she said, rocking him gently. "You will be loved, and cherished, and become a brother to Thor, whom I fear is a little too wild." She smiled fondly at the thought of her bold, vigorous son, still a child himself and as willful as any. "But he has a good heart. He will look after you, as I will."
The baby grinned as if he understood every word. Frigga moved to her couch and sat. Already her breasts had begun to ache, though it had been a full year since she had delivered this child, birthed in secret, to Laufey. Like Asgardians, the jotuns aged very slowly.
She was grateful, so very grateful, for that. It was not too late.
Opening her robes, she gathered the boy to her chest. He was hungry, as she had known he would be. She felt him grow warm, his skin flushing, his eyes closing in contentment. The tears ran down her cheeks unheeded.
"My son," she whispered. "My poor, abandoned son. I shall never leave you again."
As he drifted into sleep, she made a little bed for him from among her robes and furs on the couch, preparing to send for all her maids, to have a temporary cradle brought to her rooms, all the things he would need until those furnishings befitting a prince could be obtained.
For he would be a prince. She would see him worthy to be Odin's son, accepted by the All-father as Thor's brother. Whatever her husband's plans for the babe, he would grow to love him as if he were his own.
But he would always be hers.
"You must have a name," she said, stroking his velvet cheek, so unlike that of a jotun. "It shall be …."
It came to him as if by magic itself. "Loki," she said. "My son, Loki."
She kissed his forehead, taking care that her tears didn't fall on his face and disturb his rest. She knelt beside the couch for what might have been hours, until Gerda came to look in on her.
"My queen," she said. "Is all well?"
"Very well." Frigga rose, glancing once more at Loki to make certain he was still sleeping peacefully. "But there are many things I shall need. Call the Ladies Runa and Asleif, the royal midwife and the chamberlain, but say nothing of why they have been summoned. I will have many tasks for them."
Loki let out a small cry, and Gerda's gaze snapped to the couch. "Oh, my queen," she whispered.
"His name is Prince Loki," Frigga said, lifting her chin. "I shall exact from you and the others a vow of silence. No one in the court is to know he is here until I am prepared to announce his birth. This is also the king's wish."
Gerda stared at her for a moment and then bowed her head. "It will be as you command, my queen."
Once she was gone, Frigga sat on the couch and sang an ancient nursery tune as Loki fed. Again he looked into her eyes, all trust and love. Never once did he cry.
She brushed the tip of his little nose with the tip of her finger. "Our secret, son of mine," she said. "Ours until I die."
#
As many times as he told himself he felt nothing, Loki knew it was a lie. Even as a part of him laughed at his predicament and convinced himself that he would escape—that he was far too clever for these guards, Thor, even Odin—despair would overtake him, and for a few moment he would actually lose hope of ever leaving this cell. Of never fulfilling his destiny.
Sometimes, he even wondered if it was worth it.
But then, as now, pacing his cell from one end to the other, he overcame the despicable weakness and focused his mind on planning. He was still capable of using illusion. But pretending simply to be ill or dead hadn't been at all effective-not that he'd expected it to be. They were prepared for such obvious tricks.
Thor had not come to see him once since his captivity began, nor had Loki expected it. Sometimes he almost missed the big oaf's bluff, naïve nature. But not often. Generally, he could think of no one whose absence he regretted.
Save Frigga.
He looked down at his hand. He didn't need to concentrate to make the pale flesh turn gray, beginning at his fingertips and creeping up his hand and then to his wrist. Was this not his natural form? Had not Frigga deceived him all his life, prepared to let Odin use him as a tool to secure Jotunheim?
"Your birthright was to die." Odin had meant the vicious words to wound and tear and make Loki bleed. They only confirmed what Loki had known since just before he'd let himself fall from the Bifrost: Odin was no wise father to his people. He was an arrogant, greedy, vengeful ruler whose only interest lay in wielding and holding power by any means necessary, displaying his own utter hypocrisy with his pronouncement of Loki's crimes.
As if he were Loki's father indeed.
Loki closed his fingers into a fist, his skin paling again. Sometimes, in spite of what he was, he imagined his hands were like Frigga's, long-fingered and clever. And though he had no mirror in this prison, he had sometimes he saw his own face bearing Frigga's mark: high cheekbones, chin, nose, a certain fineness of feature lacking in Odin's line … or among the jotuns.
He laughed. Both his adoptive parents had given him a gift. Odin had taught him to expect a throne, and to hate. Frigga had taught him to ….
Making his way back to his chair, he sank into it, resting his chin on his fist. He remembered every moment of his life with perfect clarity, except a few blank spots from his sojourn on Midgard. He remembered recognizing Frigga for the first time, his eyes focusing on her face, seeing only the love he had felt since his ….
Birth. How very well she'd made him believe he'd come from her own body. And still treated him as if he had.
He sensed the guards before they approached the clear window of the cell and got to his feet. Their captain bowed perfunctorily—a lifetime's habit was hard to break, and Loki was still, technically, a prince.
"I have brought a gift from the queen," Fandral said, displaying the box in his hands. It was a very plain box, not like the one Frigga had given Loki on the morning of one birth-day feast five hundred years ago.
That box had contained a fine set of daggers, weapons he had carried with him nearly every day of those five hundred years. Until they had been taken from him, along with his freedom
Loki arched a brow. "I am deeply honored to be favored with your company, Lord Fandral," he said, inclining his head very slightly. "You are the first of my erstwhile companions to visit me in my solitude."
"You were only our companion because of Thor," Fandral said, his ordinarily pleasant face stern and dark with dislike. "Were it not for the queen—"
"I know, I know," Loki said, waving a dismissive hand. "Since I doubt you are here for a chat, leave the gift and return to your womanizing. I'm sure the maidens of Asgard—those that remain maidens—are pining for your company."
With a long, narrow-eyed look at Loki, Fandral produced a key from inside his tunic. It could neutralize only a very small area of the energy barrier, an area just large enough through which to pass objects of limited size into the cell.
As always, Loki weighed his chances, his gaze sweeping over the raised weapons of Fandral's men. He had already tried working at the weak spot in the barrier, to not avail. He would not make a fool of himself by trying now. Not in front of this whoring fool.
Never quite taking his eyes from Loki, Fandral deactivated the small section of the barrier and pushed the box through. He locked the "door" quickly and backed away as if he expected Loki to turn to smoke and flow through the opening like a serpent out of its hole.
"Is bold Fandral afraid of a helpless prisoner?" Loki asked, clasping his hands behind his back.
Fandral straightened, his eyes spitting hatred. "Of you? Asgard has nothing to fear from you. And when you finally die, there will be a celebration such as this realm has never known."
Loki cocked his head. "Are you so certain of that? I am not so isolated here that I have not heard of the fighting. What will become of Asgard if both its king and his heir die defending the realm?"
"You may sit and chew on that hope until your hair is white and your body too feeble to stand. Think on eternity, Loki."
He spun on his heel, signaled to the guards, and tramped away.
Loki looked after him until his eyes unfocused and he had to shake himself back to consciousness. He looked down at the box, bit his lip, and bent to pick it up. He laid it on the small table and slowly lifted the lid.
Pears. The sweet, perfect pairs from Frigga's private garden. The pears they had shared every morning of every birth-day feast since Loki had been no more than a hundred years old, just reaching the cusp of manhood, and Thor had already been blooded in his first battle.
"Mother," Loki said softly. "Why didn't you send daggers?"
Smiling at his own absurdity, Loki lifted one of the six pears from its silken cradle and held it to his nose. It was ripened to perfection, bespelled to maintain its freshness for weeks should Loki choose to savor the gifts slowly.
He closed his eyes and bit into it, feeling the juice run down his chin exactly as if he were still that blind, ignorant child once more. He took his time about it, sitting back in the chair and lost, for a few moments, to the rarity of pure satisfaction.
Frigga would not forget him. When he escaped—and he would escape—he would find a way to thank her. She would be the only one owed his consideration. Escape first, and then vengeance.
But never on her. Never on the one woman who had made him understand that there was such a thing as "good." Which he could never be.
#Look for Chapter Four, coming soon …