Loki kept going over his mother's words in his head. He wasn't sure why he was so shocked, though perhaps shocked wasn't quite the right word. He wasn't sure what was. Though he had never had any doubt that Freya was to be wed to either his brother or he, he had assumed she was to marry Thor, as he was the eldest. Though perhaps this made more sense. He doubted that Thor could ever hope to understand Freya, especially since he himself found her to be an enigma.
Loki had to admit to himself, he wasn't all that opposed to the idea. There were far less desirable maidens he could be forced to marry in order to secure peace amongst the realms. Girls who were as transparent as paper screens and held the same amount of substance.
He knocked on her door early the next morning. Politely at first, then with more fervor when there was no answer. Finally he opened it, throwing civility aside. The chambers were lavishly decorated, if slightly smaller than his own. The furniture was carved from the same, near ebony wood, though instead of emerald, the hangings were violet. Bookshelves built floor to ceiling lay empty, though the spacious wardrobe stood full of the same lavish silks that had been sent up upon her arrival.
She seemed nowhere in sight. Loki crossed to the bedchamber, a very large part of him fearing that she had yet again wandered out atop the balcony railing, a symptom of a vision or her melancholy, he was still uncertain. It seemed she was prone to rash fits of passion, no matter how ill-advised the action.
The bedchamber was in very near darkness, the curtains drawn tight to block out the morning sun. Freya lay atop the bed her hand stretched upwards towards the ceiling.
Loki paused, his eyes tracing her figure. Her hair lay moon bright across the covers. Her eyes were far away, the only thing dark in her porcelain features. Everything about her physical appearance seemed delicate and graceful and feminine. Not at all the sort of girl who broke her own wrists to prove a point.
Truly a riddle of a girl.
"Vanaheim has two moons," she said softly. His brows furrowed for a moment. He looked up, following her hand towards the ceiling. His confusion was traded for awe.
She had painted the night sky on the ceiling. But it was like no night sky he'd ever known. Two moons sat side by side, one a great deal larger than the other. Scattered around them were familiar constellations, though they were shuffled around. They winked back at him like real stars, just as the moons seemed to shine just as the real ones did.
"Its winter in Vanaheim," she said finally, spreading her outstretched fingers. Real snowflakes fluttered from the ceiling, settling in her hair and eyelashes. I caught some in his hand, perplexed.
"How are you doing that?" Loki asked. No one in Asgard was able to manipulate nature in such a way. She shrugged, closing her eyes. He knew she was picturing home, wherever that was. There was such sadness behind her eyes. He could see it, even behind her barely concealed anger.
"If we don't hurry, we will miss breakfast."
"I'm not hungry," she lied. He could nearly always tell when someone was lying. He supposed it was because he did it so much himself.
"Regardless, the Allfather has requested your presence."
She turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed, jaw set. She gave him the distinct impression of one not to trifle with.
Loki had heard tell of her from Thor the previous night, learned that she had leveled an entire regiment within the great hall of her palace, leaving not a single Asgardian alive. Thor had wondered aloud whether those who had told him had been mistaken, whether it was some other Vanir sorceress.
"She is simply too delicate a maiden," he had said as they made their way up the stairs to their bedchambers. "Did you see how she wept for her brother? I do not know why father would not send them to Alfheim together."
"Did you see her wrists?" Loki had asked, remembering their bruised skin underneath the heavy shackles.
"Her wrists? I was too busy trying to avoid her wrath. She has a sharp tongue. Understandable, of course, under the circumstances, but I fear her not. There is no bite to her."
He had bid Thor goodnight but could not seem to get the girl out of his mind.
"Odin has a habit of collecting the orphans he has made."
Loki found himself repeating her words over and over to himself, though she had dismissed it. It seemed such an odd thing to say, though after yesterday, her fit or vision or whatever the Vanir went into that allowed them to see the future, he found himself wondering if it meant something more. What, he hadn't the slightest idea.
Freya rose, breaking his contemplation. He turned, leading her from the room in silence. Loki wasn't sure what to say. What did the prince of the victorious kingdom say to the imprisoned princess of the loser?
They descended the stairs in silence. Freya didn't look at him, once more frigid, icy. The openness they had shared the day before seemed to have melted away. They entered the small family breakfast nook in silence, Freya trailing behind him, her face settling into a scowl.
The room was filled with the smell of roasting meats and fresh breads, the tables laden with fruit, some unrecognizable. Loki supposed that these were from Vanaheim. Freya confirmed his suspicions. Her hands tightened into fists.
He paused, pulling out the seat next to his own. Freya sat with a murmured thanks. Odin's good eye narrowed in dislike as he saw her. She stared down at the table mutely. Thor beamed, surveying them both happily, his mouth full.
"Finally," Odin said, turning away from them. Frigga sat uncomfortably next to him. Loki knew she disapproved of Freya's treatment, but she was loath to go against the Allfather's wishes. She caught Loki's eye and nodded encouragingly. Freya's eyes were instead fixed on the strange purple fruits from Vanaheim. They withered in front of his eyes.
The hall was left in uneasy silence. Thor was the first to speak. "What happened to those purple fruits?"
"They do not like to be so far from their home," Freya replied, her tone bitter, pointed. Thor pursed his lips and looked away guiltily.
They ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, carefully avoiding one another's eyes. All except Freya. She ignored her full plate, instead glaring at Odin. "When will I see my brother again?"
Loki turned towards her, horrorstruck. Her face was set, her eyes burning. Odin turned to face her, his own face clouded with anger.
"Perhaps when I am able to see my brother again," he said sharply, his eyes narrowing. Freya gripped the table, her knuckles white. Odin continued. "It has been a year today since he was taken from us."
"Shall I bury my father than also? When eons have further defiled his body?"
"Will you excuse us?" Loki asked, his hand wrapping itself around Freya's upper arm, desperately trying to defuse the situation. Odin ignored him.
"No," thundered Odin, rising from his throne-like seat at the head of the table. Frigga placed her hand soothingly on his forearm, her face comforting. Odin threw her off. "Today we must make sure that everything is prepared for Vé's memorial."
"And what of my father's?" Freya spat back. "What of my father's funeral? How will he be ushered into Folkvagnr?"
Odin stared at Freya, his chest heaving. Red spots were beginning to appear on his cheeks. This was a bad sign, Loki knew, but Freya seemed to be beyond the point of reason. "He faced you in single combat, fought and died with honor. He was a king, a king of an entire realm who loved him. You took him from his home. You paraded his head through your streets in dishonor as a show of your own might."
"And what of my brother? What kindness did your people show to him? There was no burial for him, no—"
"How would you know?" shouted Freya. "You never set foot on Vanaheim's soil until your soldiers had already scorched it bare. You heard tales of sedir and magic and of your brother's death and you blamed the Vanir. You never asked what had become of him, only brought war!"
"I had already heard what had become of my dear brother. I did not need to listen to the spun lies of witches' tongues!"
"If only you had listened, and spared my realm its rivers of blood!" Freya shouted, standing. The room had fell into deadly silence. Still, she raged ahead. "I would tell you what became of Vè, but it is clear that you would not listen. But listen to this: Njord was my father and he faced you in battle with nothing but honor. My father would still be alive if not for my failings. Please let me honor him. Let me send him to the open fields of Folkvanr, where he can join my mother in eternity."
Freya's voice had long softened by the end of her speech, her grip on the table becoming slack. Her gaze dropped to survey her untouched plate, her lip trembling. Loki suddenly felt a sharp stab of sadness twist his gut. He knew the Vanir tradition that only allowed those who had died in battle or in child birth to enter Folkvagnr. He suddenly felt guilty for never wondering where her mother might be or why she wasn't with one of her children.
He opened his mouth to plead for her, but it was Thor who beat me to it. "Certainly Father, you could allow her to have a small burial. If she is to live out her days in Asgard, as you have said, certainly you could afford her some small kindnesses?"
Odin surveyed Thor for a moment, his face softening, if only slightly. I doubted Father would have looked at me in the same fashion, had I spoken the same words. Father thought a moment before turning back to where Freya still stood.
"If—if she behaves herself tonight at the memorial. I'll consider it," Odin said stonily. "That's my final word on it."
"Thank you Father, you're most generous," Thor said, looking relieved. Odin turned to look Freya in the eyes.
"It is for my son that I do this for. Not for you. Remember that."