The diners leave soon, even before dessert. Draco fumes on the way back to the room: "Why the hell won't they let me do Potions? I'm tempted to switch to Theoretical, just to screw with his head!"
"Odinson, your brother's a handful," Ciel comments, ignoring Draco. "I've never seen someone blather on that long . . ."
"He's not my brother."
Draco halts mid-complaint. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me." Loki speeds up now, eyes fixed straight in front of him. "I'm not truly 'Odinson' either."
"Are you speaking in the metaphorical, 'I don't fit in well with my family' sense?" Draco hurries to catch up.
"Yes," Loki mutters. "And also literally, in the 'my father and mother are actually two non-Asgardians whom Asgardia knocked off' sense."
They reach their room and bolt through the force-field door.
"All right, kindly explain in full," Ciel says, falling onto his couch, and Draco takes a seat beside him. Loki remains standing, pacing around the room, voice quiet but taut with anger.
"That investigation that your butler so graciously conducted revealed that I am not by birth a child of Asgardia. No, I am a child of the monarchs of the land of ice . . ."
"Sorry to break the dramatic monologue," Draco interrupts, "but which land of ice?"
"The only land of ice that matters, in Asgardia's narrow worldview— Jotunheim."
"Asgardia's main rival," Ciel whispers to Draco.
"I knew that!"
They fall silent as Loki fixes them with a glare. "According to the letter I received, I was actually picked up as an infant from the Jotun palace after my true parents, the king and queen, were brutally slaughtered in my room by Asgardian forces."
"That explains the thestral thing, doesn't it?" Draco mutters.
"What thestral thing?" Ciel frowns.
"It does, quite elegantly," Loki replies, voice low and sarcastic. "It explains quite a bit more, too. It explains why I've always preferred reading and sophisticated spellwork to running and smashing things. It explains why I've always had a pacifist streak, despite steeping in one of the most militaristic cultures in history. It explains why I've never, ever been able to fall in love with a girl, despite . . . efforts. It explains, ever so simply, why I have not been able to fulfill the prophecy of Asgardia— it was never my prophecy to begin with."
"You shouldn't have tried so hard to fulfill it," Ciel reproaches. "There wouldn't be negative consequences if you hadn't . . ."
"No negative consequences? Hardly," he spits. "I was the prince of Asgardia, on show beside Thor every day of my life, and yet I could never do a damn thing right. And I wondered, every night of my life, why I couldn't be like them, why I couldn't just be normal . . ."
"Excuse me."
A voice from outside interrupts Loki. It is slightly distorted by the force field, yet the roommates recognize it at once.
"How may we help you, Your Majesty?" Ciel calls, rising and striding to the door.
"You may start by letting me in."
Loki pales. "I don't want to speak to him."
"We'll send him away," Draco says.
"No, please don't," Ciel implores. "I don't want a king angry at me, I might need to use him in the future . . ."
"Oh . . ." Draco moans and looks back at Loki, who instantly bounds over the couch and into his room, slamming the door. Ciel disables the field, then, and in steps Odin Borson. He surveys the room, groaning as he finds only Ciel and Draco, and demands, "Where is Loki?"
Ciel straightens to his full height of five feet, looks Odin straight in the eye, and replies, "He stepped out for some green tea."
"He'll likely be sidetracked by the library, of course," Draco supplies with a snort. "Phantomhive, how much do you want to bet he'll get lost in some Elvish tragedy for hours?"
"I'm not taking that bet." Ciel launches a perfectly natural scowl at Draco. "He'll probably scamper back in, mere seconds before curfew."
Odin shifts his eyes between them— or rather, his right eye, as the left is covered by an eyepatch— and grunts. "So you'd suggest I check the library?"
"That or Anteiku . . ." Draco answers.
"Anteiku's the only place for decent tea and coffee at this hour," Ciel explains. "It's my best find on campus."
"Your best find? I was the one who told you about it . . ."
As they descend into ritualized bickering, they see Odin turn to go, but he then stops.
"You have seen Loki more often than even Thor has, this year. Tell me, has he engaged in any . . . improprieties?"
"Improprieties?" Ciel raises his eyebrows but keeps his expression otherwise neutral.
"What do you mean by that?" Draco asks, face likewise blank.
"I mean that my son showed up to dinner in a near-catatonic state," Odin snaps, "looking like death warmed over, inexplicably fascinated by arugula, and unable to string more than five words together."
Draco furrows his brow, puzzling over the statement. Ciel understands first and barks out a laugh. "You thought he was high?"
On instinct, Draco rolls his eyes at the king of Asgardia. "Have you even met him?"
"Study drugs, maybe." Ciel shakes his head. "No, he's too brilliant to need them . . ."
"Only thing he gets high off of is Arithmancy proofs," Draco exclaims. "Really, he goes bouncing off the walls at office hours . . ."
"He's not using recreational drugs, there's no chance," Ciel concludes.
"I would love to believe you," Odin says, "yet deception has always been one of Loki's main talents."
"How do we prove his innocence?" Draco regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
"You may start by showing me his room."
Draco and Ciel share a look.
"That's quite the invasion of privacy," Ciel says.
"Extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary measures."
Draco leaps up, darts to Loki's door, and pokes his head in— only to find the room deserted. He throws the door open and says, "The place seems presentable enough. Come on in."
Odin marches in, and Ciel and Draco watch as he inspects the place, thumbing through bookshelves laden with textbooks and Elvish novels, rifling through pants and shirts hung neatly in the closet, even peeking under the bed skirt. At last he turns to Loki's two mahogany trunks, inlaid with intricate golden patterns, and flips them open. In one, he finds more books and regular clothes. In the other, he reveals an arsenal of smoke bombs, knives and assorted defensive tools. He takes each item out, examines it, and then sets it beside him on the floor with a sigh.
"All set, then?" Ciel asks when the trunk is empty.
Odin ignores him, instead muttering a charm, and a click rings through the room. With a heavy sigh, he leans forward and lifts out a panel of wood— a false bottom.
"Will his lies never end?" he murmurs.
Ciel and Draco barely dare breathe as Odin reaches back into the trunk, unearthing the secret stored beneath— a green lace nightgown.
Silence.
"No," Odin breathes, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. "No, Loki . . ."
"That's my dress," Draco blurts.
Odin's head snaps up. "What did you just say?"
"I was hiding it from my family, since I'm not quite sure how they'd react. I told Loki I had something to hide from them, and I swore it wasn't anything illegal, and he so kindly offered me this spot."
Odin narrows his eyes. "So Loki doesn't even know about this . . . thing?"
"No, of course not," he chuckles. "Why would I tell him? He's so damn serious, he couldn't offer me any help at all."
"Help?" Odin intones.
"Styling help, obviously," Draco babbles. "Speaking of which, I was wondering if you could give me some advice. I love your hair, it's got that well-kept look, without seeming oily in the slightest, and so I have to ask— what's your conditioner?"
Odin's mouth falls open, and he hands the dress to Draco. "I think . . . I will go look for Loki in the library now."
He hurries out.
Loki drops his invisibility charm and slides out from under the bed, gasping with laughter. "I can't . . . believe . . . that just happened . . ."
"Oh, Odins— Loki," Draco drops to the floor and hugs him as his laughter morphs, inevitably, into sobs.
