**Author's Note: I've been working on this story so long that I feel I ought to do a "Previously on 'The Prisoner'" section, like they do with TV episodes. Remember those unanswered questions from the beginning of the story about the war on Midgard? Well...I hope you haven't entirely forgotten about that, as a lot of those are going to be answered in this chapter, so hold on tight. Don't worry, we'll return to Asgard to check on Loki in no time.
p.s. Queen Mod is a character of my own invention, I just needed a leader for the dwarves and thought they might as well have a queen.
One Year Ago
Mod, the queen of the dwarves, managed to be intimidating despite her size. She declined the chair in the council room that Laufey offered her, perhaps owing to the fact that she barely reached his waist when they were both standing. She wore a bronze breastplate and gauntlets over her velvet gown, the metal scratched and battered to impress the viewer with the battles she had survived, and there was a deep scar across her left cheek that resembled claw marks.
"Well, King of Jotunheim?" she demanded, looking about the cavernous meeting hall expectantly. It was empty but for the two of them. "I have accepted your invitation because you promised it would be worth my while to hear you."
Queen Mod clearly did not enjoy being here: try though she might to hide behind her imperious manner, and despite the heavy fox fur draped across her shoulders, she could not entirely suppress her shivers. Laufey smirked, leaning back comfortably in his chair for a moment. For Jotunheim, this was a pleasant spring day.
A pragmatic approach, then, Laufey decided.
"I spoke truly," he told her. "Jotunheim arms itself for war as we speak—a second invasion of Midgard."
She raised her eyebrows, speechless. She turned her back on him and began pacing, her right hand twitching at her side as if longing for the weapons Laufey's guards had stripped her of.
"There are whispers in my realm, King Laufey," she said conversationally, "that your defeat at the hands of the Æsir has driven you to madness. And now I think that I am beginning to believe them." She laughed harshly. "I am surprised your subjects have not overthrown you by now, though I suppose I'll never understand you giants' preoccupation with bloodlines and 'right to rule' and the like."
Laufey's fists clenched around the arms of his chair, but he kept his voice cool and rational. Perhaps if you dwarves wore your lineage on your skin for all to see, blood would matter to you more, he thought.
"It is not madness, though cunning is often mistaken for such by those with less imagination."
She ignored his underhanded jab. "If you choose to lead your people to their doom, that is no concern of mine," she said with a shrug. "But you will not involve the dwarves. We want nothing to do with Midgard."
"Midgard is not the prize we seek."
He knew then that he had piqued her interest, for she halted in her pacing and half-turned toward him.
"I am listening, King Laufey."
"In Odin's palace, there is a great Vault, filled with riches from the realms he has subdued. He does not use them as weapons to further his cause—they are but trophies to him, symbols of submission. He has taken one such item from Jotunheim, not because of the threat it poses to him, but in order to break our spirit."
"You wish to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters," Mod said flatly. "What has this to do with me?"
"At least one third of this Vault is stocked with treasures of Nidavellir," he said, watching her face carefully for her reaction. "If I am not mistaken, the dwarves were forced to craft many of these 'gifts' as tribute to their conquerors? Let's see….there is a mighty warship that can be folded up and fit into one's pocket…a sword that needs no wielder to slay all in its path…and a war-hammer that can call forth a storm. Have I forgotten anything?"
Her eyes flashed and she took several angry steps toward him. "You speak as if these were mere trinkets we covet," she snapped. "So very like giants, to paint us dwarves as greedy and—"
"You mistake me," he said calmly. "These items languish in the All-Father's halls, gathering dust, but they could restore the glory of Nidavellir. I understand that more fully than you realize."
The queen was silent, studying his face shrewdly as she considered. "If it is Asgard you wish to invade," she said finally, "then what value does Midgard hold?"
Now she was asking the important questions. "Asgard's defenses are notoriously difficult to breach," Laufey explained. "I suppose you have heard the stories about that damnable watchman of theirs?"
"Ah, yes. Heimdall the All-Seeing, the All-Father's eyes throughout the Nine Realms." Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. "So Midgard is intended to be a distraction, to draw his gaze away from home?"
Outside in the corridor came a muffled clang, as if someone had knocked over one of the braziers along the wall. Mod looked at Laufey in alarm, as their conversation was apparently not entirely private, but he waved away her anxieties. He knew exactly what caused the sound.
"It's nothing but a pest," he assured her. "Not unlike a snow-rat lurking about the palace—a nuisance, but not a threat."
That boy had developed a maddening habit of listening at doors like a common chambermaid.
Perhaps a week without supper would cure you of it. Or perhaps two weeks. Just wait until I get my hands on you, boy…
"What is it that you ask of me?"
Laufey shook himself and returned to the matter at hand. "It is not your legions I have need of. My warriors will not face Asgard's might head-on—that is a mistake I will not make twice. The traditional Jotun form of combat will suffice, dodging and feinting, forcing them to make chase, spreading the enemy forces thin over a large area."
"You wish to exhaust them, then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"We simply need to buy enough time to find a point to infiltrate the palace undetected, so that a small company can sneak in and retrieve the Casket. That will be your opportunity to reclaim whatever you see fit."
Mod paced in silence, twirling the end of her ginger braid absently. When she faced Laufey again, her black eyes were gleaming with excitement, but her tone was still guarded.
"This is a tremendous gamble, King of Jotunheim," she warned him. "If it should fail?"
He leaned forward in his seat so that their faces were inches apart.
"I am desperate indeed, Queen of Nidavellir," he growled. "Desperate enough to seek out an alliance with you, my old enemy. If I had a less risky option, do you not think I would have taken it already?"
Far from daunted, the queen smiled.
"Let us discuss terms, then."
Present Day
Odin unfolded the most recent letter from Asgard and recognized Frigga's delicate handwriting. He would have known it was from her anyways—her heavenly lilac perfume lingered on the parchment, or at least Odin imagined it did.
Her letters were a balm to him, so many miles from home. She always managed to pick out the right trivial details to tell him—when Thor got unusually high marks on his astronomy test, when Loki said something particularly precocious that she thought would amuse Odin, when the boys came up with a new game together.
More and more, she was calling them that—the boys—a collective unit. It rolled off her pen naturally, as if they had been together all their lives. Odin was not certain what to make of that. But she had given him a vivid picture of what home looked like in his absence.
He began skimming this new letter, curious to see what she would tell him about the children today. But the first line stopped him cold.
Loki is gravely ill.
Frigga explained the situation to him, that Eir was looking after him but she was not optimistic. He had been feverish and delirious for three days now without improvement.
What have I done? He wondered. Had taking the boy away from his environment somehow sickened him? Had he removed Loki from his best chance at survival?
For a moment, Odin feared what Laufey would do if his son died in captivity—but since over a fortnight had gone by without a single messenger demanding Loki's return, Odin felt more disturbed by Laufey's lack of concern.
Though he had not spoken very much to him, Odin liked the boy. It was impossible to deny. He was impressed and amused by Loki's cleverness and occasional cheekiness—it reminded Odin of himself at that age—and he was starting to pity the apparently cold upbringing he had had thus far.
No one so young should die, of course, but Odin would feel more than a twinge of regret if Loki were unable to fight off this infection.
Is our duty as parents not to protect children trusted to our care? Frigga had challenged him not so long ago. The words kept echoing in his mind, and he could not block them out.
He perused the letter again, searching for any sign of hope.
Though Frigga was writing with a great deal of restraint, there was an undercurrent of worry in her letter. No, not simply worry. He knew his wife would never make such a blunt omission as I am afraid, Odin, unless she was in outright anguish.
This was not disinterested sympathy for a stranger's child—this was a frantic mother.
He knew she had been growing rather attached to the boy, but he had not predicted this.
What have I done? He thought again with a sinking feeling.