Silver and Scales

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A World Made Free

As the sun rose to the heavens, and it blanketed Asgard with the beauty of golden light, Vyperia buckled the waist belt tightly with nimble fingers as she gazed out the large window of the bedroom chambers. The last piece of armor that she needed to put on—a leather chest plate—lay behind her on the fresh linens on the bed. While she enlisted several thoughts of reassurance, the anxiety of entering Jotunheim was like a plague in her mind.

She feared the Frost Giants, though she never would condemn them to such a fate as genocide. They were creatures of war and barbarianism; and they'd have never sought out a war with Asgard if Thor had used his passion for something other than vengeance. Vyperia knew very well that she could die in that icy tundra if she stayed there long enough—that much was true.

Your mind beckons, Loki's voice whispered as if he were speaking so softly into her ear, but his voice echoed in her mind as if it bounced within the inner walls of her cerebral cortex. I can hear your thoughts. You are frightened.

Loki was in the arsenal, clear across on the other side of the castle. Vyperia looked out the window, dressed partially in her newly acquired green and black armor (to match the king ever Asgard entered war). Her hands reached for the chest plate; she gazed down at the heavy piece, though her eyes were not concentrating on it.

I have every reason to be frightened, Vyperia thought decisively.

With me, you should know peace; Loki's words filled her head.

Reassurance and honeyed words calm the most ignorant of women, and I am not like them, Vyperia returned.

She pulled the chest piece over her head and weaved her hands through the dense material.

We march into Jotunheim with no army behind us, Vyperia understood.

The bedroom door opened and Loki stood in the middle of the threshold. Vyperia looked over her should to see him smiling at her.

"We march into Jotunheim, and all of Asgard stands behind us," replied Loki. "They cannot kill me. If they do, death is an assurance that they aren't willing to take."

"They will die by your hand or by Odin's," Vyperia muttered as she shifted the acquired piece of armor around her body. "They cannot escape death."

Loki smirked as he watched his queen uncomfortably move in the new armor. He strode into the room to stand in front of her. She looked at him with a weak grin. Loki held either side of the chest plate to arrange it in a way that complied with Vyperia's lean and tall stature.

The new armor was not something that she had grown accustomed to in the last three years. Always, she traveled with sprightly armor, for her work and fighting style had been one that required being light on her feet. As queen, the new blacksmiths took little care to the agility of their new matriarch and instead centered Vyperia's armory on protection.

"It contours to the body like a mold," explained Loki, as he studied the leather and metal strips along the chest cavity of her armor piece.

His fingers grazed over crucial extremity points; the armor appeased to his touch, sinking back against Vyperia's thin-covered tunic. With each pressure point, the armor became tighter and more secure—a feeling that suited her rather than the spacious, large shell of a warrior's girth.

"The newest blacksmith"—Loki spoke as if he was slightly distracted—"is very professional. While he amuses the soldier's concept (strength over endurance and power over speed)…" Loki's fingers relented as the leather and metal bent beneath his hands, appropriating Vyperia's bust and stomach in a comfortable squeeze—"He makes up for it by having his raw materials shape against its wearer's body."

After Loki fixed it, it felt more like a second skin.

"If armor is this comfortable, why doesn't he make it for the rest of the Asgardians?" asked Vyperia curiously, beaming.

Loki scoffed.

"The blacksmith did not think that it was necessary to spend ten grand on a single soldier, especially if they fight half as well as Thor," he added, smiling at her. He strode behind her to fix the belt around her hips.

"I would gladly opt for one of my own, but I've worn the same full armor for the last eight-hundred years. It has grown on me."

Vyperia chuckled. She could feel his hands pull and tug on her belt, adjusting it to the chest plate's snug fit around her hips.

"I might have a word with the blacksmith," criticized Loki. "He obviously doesn't know how to make a belt for a woman's hips."

"As I recall, he informed me that the last time that he had forged armor," Vyperia remarked, "it had been for a man whose girth and size is the same as Volstagg,"

"That may be so," Loki stated, "but it doesn't take five years of studying forgery and ten years of smelting and working on grindstones to know that if added 150 pounds, the Rainbow Bridge won't collapse under your girth."

Vyperia did not feel the waist belt loosen until it lowered to her the light connection of her pelvic bone. The leather held fast to her the grooves of her stomach muscles but loosened comfortably around her waist. Loki fixed that problem as well.

"Sit," Loki told her.

Vyperia lowered herself to the bed.

Loki knelt down on the floor. His fingers worked the metal casting around her thighs and kneecaps. Vyperia heard Loki sigh irritably; the blacksmith apparently had modeled the straps and pressure points for a heavy-built swordsman rather than a female assassin.

It was actually quite arousing to see her king maneuver the material around her body with such ease. Vyperia felt a tug there and push here as Loki's hands adjusted each piece of armor to fit her long legs. He was quick to spot exactly what was wrong with each adjustment and fixed it upon noticing.

"Remind me to discipline him," Loki muttered as he rose to his feet.

"It is a fair mistake," Vyperia dismissed easily.

"It would take a blind troll to mistake you for a man like Volstagg—for a man at all," he added, gesturing to her incredulously.

"I know anatomy and biology are not the easiest of subjects to understand," Loki told her as he helped her to her feet, "but it doesn't take four years of healing to tell a woman apart from a man. Most males figure that one out when they turn five."

"Most Asgardian men," Vyperia pointed out with a smirk. "Midgardians begin to figure that out when they turn eleven—though with the rate some of them cross-dress, who can blame them?"

Loki chuckled.

"We cannot judge them," said Loki lightly. "It is in their nature to be confused; which is why every one of their races need some sort of government. What Midgard would be without a king…?"

"On their planet, it is called a democracy."

"That is an illusion," Loki told her, shaking his head. "Men and women huddling together to form a brilliant belief system and everyone is pleased with it? That's a lie."

"It's been working for them for ages," said Vyperia with a shrug.

"And in those years, how many of them have died?" remarked Loki. "They are not free like us. They are a lost race, and they don't even know it. You know it by first-hand experience. The Midgardians slay each other for mere purpose—to do it—and for what cause? They slaughter each other while the other Realms stand by."

Vyperia nodded, unable to argue that much.

"They are animals."

"Animals, indeed," agreed Loki. "Come, Darling. We must leave before the night falls upon us. We settle this tonight for a world made free."

Vyperia followed him out the bedroom door.