Simon awoke with a start and for a moment he thought he was safe in his cot back at the encampment, then Lelia stirred beside him. He turned over onto his back to stare up at the low rafters of the ceiling, warm, dim light dappling the thatch with dancing shadows. He rose on his elbows to peer out the window across the small bedchamber, just barely able to see the flames from the torch in one corner, sure if he sat up, he'd be able to see the top knot of the guard posted just outside.

The front door to the little cottage was similarly guarded, the residents having given up their home temporarily to house the prisoners of Clan Fiodoir. Andra, the woman who, along with her band of warriors, had discovered their camp in the woods had seen to it they were well treated, fed, given fresh changes of clothes and water with which to wash off the dirt of the road. In fact she became a rather gracious hostess once back in her village though they were warned to stay in the cottage until she came for them.

"We've no dispute with the two of you," she'd promised them, "In fact, were you not Melos's clan, we'd have likely brought you to the village, given you what you needed to complete your trek and sent you on your way so 'tis nothing personal."

She would say no more, only left them with the warning to stay in the cottage and she would return to speak with them on the morrow.

Lelia groaned, throwing her arm about his stomach, pulling him back to the pillow, "We've no place to hurry off to now. Must ye rise so early?"

"I dreamed I was back at the encampment. When I woke up, I was temporarily disoriented. Go back to sleep."

"Mmmm," Lelia stretched, let out a soft giggle, "I dreamt I was helping Da birth a sheep the size of our mare, Melda. Either that or 'twas a curly haired horse."

Lelia began to hum, rubbing her hand back and forth atop the coverlet across his stomach and slowly he relaxed. Before he drifted back down into the ether, a thought drifted through his head. If they were indeed in a land where magic was the rule rather than the exception, there was magic in her voice. He gathered her to his side and closed his eyes...

…..only to open them what seemed like mere minutes later, the illusion shattered as he saw the room was bathed in bright sunlight. He felt for Lelia, but she was gone and he sat up to see her on tiptoes peeking out of the bedchamber window.

" 'Tis certainly a busy place."

Simon climbed out of the cot to join her. Through the uneven glass panes, he could see men and women roaming about outside their cottage, hear children's laughter, men yelling, a baby crying, women talking, the distant clang of a hammer against an anvil. He could also smell food cooking, the scent making his stomach grumble.

"Do ye think they've yet sent word to Harmand that we're here?"

Simon shrugged, "I've not the slightest idea. I'd think they would have by now. Andra seemed pretty eager to stick it to him, so to speak."

Lelia crossed the room to the bedchamber door, stuck one ear to the wood, "There's someone in the common room, sure as I'm standing here! I think they're cooking."

Lelia crooked a finger at him, ignoring his waving hands as she opened the door a crack. At the small fireplace, leaning over a kettle hung above the flames, stood a stout young woman, dark brown hair done in a single braid down her back. She had on a simple linen dress, a light brown apron about her waist though even from a distance, the beautiful needlework adorning the cuffs of the sleeves, the hem of the apron and the dress was evident. In a straight backed chair before the fire, talking in low tones to the young woman, sat Andra, a sewing needle in one hand, a garment draped across her lap.

Lelia slowly slid into the room to stand, hands behind her back. With a growl, Simon followed suit, shutting the bedchamber door and making Lelia jump as both women turned toward them.

"Ah, Master Foster and company. My daughter Kensi was just cooking up the morning meal. Plover eggs and barley porridge with dried berries."

Andra gestured to a small table in one corner of the common room, "Sit. Our messenger will take the morning to reach Harmand. You've plenty of time,"

Simon pulled out a chair for Lelia, then took his own seat, the old anxiousness creeping in as he fiddled with the placement of the wooden charger, pewter cup and fork before him. Andra lifted the garment from her lap to hold it up for Kensi who smiled approvingly and Simon was surprised to see it was a small felted baby bunting.

"Kensi is expecting her first child. 'Twill come in the dead of winter, the gods have mercy on us. I've been sewing steady on since."

"Your clan name," Simon moved the pewter cup yet again, "It means weaver doesn't it? It's been a long time...I may have heard you wrong...,"

"It does indeed," Andra's chest swelled outward as if it could possibly find room in the confines of her snug bodice, "We have made clothing for Kings and Queens, noblemen and women, princes and princesses. We are the finest garment makers, the finest spinners, the best weavers in the whole of Alfheim," here Andra's face darkened, "When we migrated from Nidavellir generations ago, we were deemed the royal clothiers to King Hreidmar."

"And yet ye left?" Lelia put a hand atop Simon's cup.

Andra continued her sewing, "Other clans grew jealous of our success, started disputes like the one we have with Harmand, driving us to find another realm in which to put down roots and so here we have remained for countless ages."

"So why..." Simon straightened the fork again, pulling it out of Lelia's reach as her hand groped for the utensil, "...so why or rather how did Harmand's clan come to reside here in Alfheim as well?"

Andra paused, her needle above the material, head tilted toward him, "You mean you know nothing of your clan history? You do not know about Melos's friendship with the Asgardian Royal Guard Volundr, how they were protectors of the Great Runes? Melos couldn't bear to live so far from his friend in Asgard and so settled in Alfheim. When our clan founded this village and lay claim to the land, Harmand contested our presence, saying we crossed their borders, encroached on their lands. This is our largest, though not our only dispute and one of the reasons you both find yourselves our guests. We are going to barter you for our borders. They let us reclaim the land they drove us from, prime grassland for our livestock and rich soil, mind you, and they will have you with our blessings."

"And if he doesn't agree?" Simon tucked his hands beneath his thighs, felt his palms starting to sweat.

"You could always stay here," Kensi waddled to the table to take their chargers, "Become weavers."

At a stern look from Andra, Kensi hurried from the table to fill their plates, "They'll do as we ask or you will remain as our guests until the old hickory headed fool changes his mind."

Simon winced as Lelia kicked his shin beneath the table, "Ah...if Harmand refuses to barter with you, we'll have no choice but to return to the encampment. We can't very well remain here permanently."

Kensi had been ladling barley porridge onto their plates, now she slowed, looked up at Andra whose mouth was drawn up into a tight bow.

"And if we let you go, what is to stop you from crossing our lands and reaching Harmand on your own?"

"Nothing at all," Lelia stuck out her chin, defiant, "Sure and the same thing that's keeping us here in the first place."

Here Andra smiled at Kensi, nodded her head. The young woman seemed to relax then, returning to the table, arranging a bowl of hard boiled Plover eggs in the center and setting their plates before them.

"If Harmand finds the barter not to his liking, we will send you back to Asgard with a group of our finest warriors. They will make certain you reach your camp safely."

Lelia stood from her chair, "But we don't want to return to Asgard, do ye ken? We have to reach Harmand's village!"

Andra set her sewing in her lap again, regarding them, "And I am left to wonder what is it that you are about in your eagerness to reach Melos's folk."

Simon shifted in his chair, holding his tongue as tightly as he could, watched Lelia stand there, trembling until she eased herself back into her seat, her hands on the armrests, "We are to be married,"

Andra sat forward as Simon struggled to keep from sliding to the floor.

"An Asgardian and an Off-worlder? Married? You've run off so you might marry? Your poor parents," Andra shook her head, "Why did you not tell me?"

"Would it have changed anything?" Lelia muttered.

"HA! No, no, not at all, however I do admit I was more than intrigued when I found the two of you in the woods. I am...,"

"...a terrible gossip," Kensi finished with a giggle, ignoring Andra's scowl.

"...I am nothing of the sort. I am merely curious...and perhaps a bit soft hearted but we will have to wait and see what Harmand's heart is made of."

When the morning meal had been cleared away and they were finally left to themselves, Simon sat at the table, arms crossed glaring at Lelia.

"What possessed you to tell Andra we were traveling to Harmand to be married? What were you thinking?"

Lelia glanced at the cottage door, fingering the hem of her dress, "I was thinking only of what we've been talking about. Did ye want me to tell her what ye've in yer pack? Did ye want me to say "Oh we're on a mission to find the Rune Elementals. We were sent on this merry chase because me Aunt is the royal Seer?"

Simon ran his hand through his hair, "No, Jesus, no...but..."

Lelia studied his face for a moment, "But..."

"Well, if she tells Harmand we were on our way to be married...he might believe her."

Lelia hung her head, her voice barely a whisper, "I thought we...that ye loved me."

Simon reached across the table, holding his hand out, staring at Lelia until she placed her own hand into his.

"I do, Lelia. I do love you. I was caught off guard is all. We want to keep our agenda secret and you said the first thing that came to your mind."

"Whatever else could I say? 'Tis ye who occupy me thoughts during the day, me dreams at night."

He lifted her hand pressed a kiss to her knuckles, "And Harmand can believe what he likes. We'll soon be safe with our own people."

When Lelia brought his hand to her cheek, he was struck by the ease with which he'd regarded Harmand's clan as his own people. The further they traveled from the encampment, the further he felt removed from his old life, the portals, New York, the longhouses, it all seemed a quickly fading dream as he caressed her face.

"Soon."

Long shafts of sunlight poured across the flagstones lining the palace corridor, quickening Loki's steps.

"We'll get there in time," Colin looked at his wrist, "It's just half past eight."

"Father," Fen panted, doubling his stride to match his father's, "Will you be able to watch me... race on the morrow?"

"I will, now let us leave off this chatter, it slows us considerable."

Loki stopped in his tracks, so quickly, in fact, that Fen and Colin sailed by him, stopping at least a yard ahead.

"Father?"

Loki backtracked a few steps and turned to stare down the corridor to his right with a deep sigh.

With a purposeful though slower stride, Tamarin at her side, came Frigga, resplendent in a dark gold brocade gown, her serpent headed silver cane beating out a swish click rhythm in time with her gait.

"Mother, how beautiful you look today. Fen, come greet your grandmother."

Fen rushed to greet her with a deep bow, "Good morrow, Your Highness,"

"So formal now that he has become a man," Frigga raised an eyebrow, putting her hand on Fen's shoulder, pulling him to her in a warm embrace, "Are you competing in the games today?"

Fen shook his head, stepping back from her, "I am to race on the morrow, Grandmother."

She smiled, clasped his hand, "I shall enjoy seeing you win."

"Mother, do not invite pride," Loki put a hand at Fen's back, "He will do his best."

Frigga nodded to Colin, "Master Denehy,"

"Yer Highness," Colin bowed, "How are you this fine day?"

Frigga clapped her hands together, "I am quite well. I cannot wait to see how our warriors perform today."

"Mother, truly. Why do you not rest in your chambers and let the couriers keep you informed of the day's events?"

Frigga's mouth dropped open, her hand to her chest, "And miss an event which occurs once every ten seasons? Unthinkable. I must stand for Odin. He will be watching from his throne in Valhalla, how disgraceful would it be for him to see me sequestered in my bedchamber like an elderly matron?"

Loki closed his eyes. Never would he willingly wound her pride by telling her she was indeed grown old, why tell her something she knew but then her age was not the issue.

"Besides, I wish to see my son rule the day," she took his hands in hers, "You did exceedingly well at the last competition."

"Mother, I have not stepped into the arena in such a capacity in over twenty seasons," Loki moaned, ignoring Colin's look of surprise, "And I do not recall doing well at all. Perhaps you are speaking of the wrong son."

Frigga let loose of his hands, wrapping her arm into his as she urged him forward, "I am speaking of you, Loki. Now come along before we are late."

Loki dug his heels into the flagstones, "Mother, I do not want you to see me spar...," but Frigga tugged at his arm.

"You do not want me to see you fail and I say, do your best and you will have won the day no matter where you finish."

Frigga's astute summary loosened his feet from the floor as they started en masse down the corridor again.

"Yer a wise woman, yer Highness," Colin smiled, falling into step beside her.

"Shhh," She held a finger to her lips, "Do not divulge my secret."

"What secret?" Fen piped up as Frigga winked at Colin.

"If I told you, it would not be a secret would it."

"I suppose not," Fen frowned, confounded by their laughter.

"Will you slow down?" Eris grabbed Neve's wrist with one hand, the other pulling the hood of her cloak farther over her head. If any of the group happened to be in the crowd, the last thing she wanted was to be noticed. What if she ran into Chase or Buzzy. The thought almost made her reverse direction back toward the Oak and Thistle.

"I never seen games like this. Don' wanna miss 'em!"

As they neared the arena and Eris saw the streams of people pouring into the arena from all sides, she began to relax. If she spied anyone from her group, all she needed to do would be to look away, move right or left. They'd never be able to find her again.

The roar coming from inside the arena seemed to split the sky. Tightening her grip on
Neve's wrist, Eris shoved her way around, between and behind people until at last they passed under the tall archway to stare wide eyed into the pit. There were multiple events going on at one time, the arena floor divided into three sections though Eris immediately found what she was looking for in the center circle.

She wove her way down the stone steps, searching for space on the wooden benches flanking either side.

"Eris, over there. On your left!"

A couple seats sat empty nearly to the middle of the row beside her. Still pulling Neve along she started to sidle in front of the spectators, ignoring the epithets, the shouts and cries until they were safely in place.

"So many people," Neve murmured, pressing closer to Eris's side, "Did ya see the way they was looking at me when we walked in front a them?"

"Tell them to fuck off," Eris smiled at Neve's subsequent fit of giggles, straightening herself upward to see over the head of a tall man sitting in front of her.

Two men stood poised at the center of the arena, both holding long heavy staffs at the ready. The larger of the two was wider by at least another person than his opponent, his leather breeches studded with black iron nubs, his hairy chest bare save for two leather straps which criss-crossed from each shoulder to his waist. His face was painted black, two blue stripes extending from his hairline over his eyes down to his chin, his steel gray hair pulled back into a topknot and tied with a piece of yellow silk. Eris, however, was far more interested in his opponent.

Loki held his staff in the crook of one arm, wrapping a white strip of linen around the knuckles of his right hand. He was dressed similarly though his breeches bore no studs. His black hair was tied tightly up, with a green piece of silk, in a high ponytail and he was barefoot. When he turned his head to look up into the stands, she noticed his face was painted in thin green stripes stippled with red dots. Not until he swiped at his nose with the back of his hand did she realize the red dots were blood.

"I thought royals wasn't supposed to compete," Neve whispered to Eris who shrugged, looked at the woman sitting beside her with a baby in her lap.

"Excuse me, are members of the royal family allowed to compete in these games?"

The woman turned to Eris, regarding her and Neve disdainfully though she tilted her head to the arena floor, "You see the Prince do you not? Then it must be so."

"Kiss my ass,"

"True. I only thought because...," she hesitated until Neve prompted her.

"Because he is a prince and therefore above all..."

"Because he is a prince and therefore above all..," Eris repeated, growing more irritated as the woman laughed aloud.

"He stands for the King who himself is above all. He represents the royal family in the games, as does his half breed son. You are not of Asgard are you?"

Eris felt the rush of adrenaline course through her. For a moment, she thought the woman could tell she was from Earth but Neve leaned across her lap.

"She is Alfari. Can ya not see it?"

The woman sneered, pulling her son further onto her lap, "She speaks with the manner of the lowborn, drow. Alfari she may claim to be but she is hardly nobility and she is sorely ignorant of Asgardian protocol."

"I am right here!" Eris cried, "Would you mind not talking across me? I asked a simple question, damnit. I didn't expect a debate on my pedigree!"

The woman set her baby across her shoulder, stood and without another word began to make her way further down the benches, her head high in the air. Eris felt the blood rising to her cheeks as she clenched her hands into fists.

"She speaks with the manner of the lowborn...she is hardly nobility."

She was still white trash. She was still just an exotic dancer, a common whore No matter how hard she tried to pull herself up from the bottom of the heap, she could never find purchase enough to stop the subsequent backward slide. She yanked her hood farther over her face even as Neve sought to pat her cheeks with her callused hands.

"Now, now. You don't pay her no mind. She might be well attended but she is ugly all the way down to her heart."

There came a great blat from a horn, drawing their attention to the royal box in the middle of the stands. Thor was standing at the edge of the railing peering down into the arena.

Eris looked to Loki, seeing him give a short nod as Thor raised a hand and brought it down. "Continue!"

From then on, Eris was lost, mesmerized by the agility, the ferociousness with which Loki and his opponent fought, the crack of staff against staff, the cries of exertion, the thunder from the stands as the men wrestled to gain control over one another. Even the men and women in the other two circles had paused and were now watching the match.

"Is it to the death?" Neve shook her arm, "The Dark Prince looks like he is ready to give."

Eris shoved at Neve, "It can't be to the death can it? And don't call him Dark Prince. It makes him sound...evil...,"

Eris sat further forward, finding it hard to keep her seat, nearly leaping to her feet as Loki dropped to one knee in the hard packed dirt, his face twisted into a grimace as his opponent circled about him. She glanced up at the Royal box to see Thor and his queen both standing at the railing now, Thor with his hand raised again, waiting to end the match, his face grave with concern. A collective shout went up from the spectators then as Eris turned back to see Loki thrust his staff between his opponent's legs, giving it a violent turn, taking the giant of a man off his feet to land on his back with a great groan. If Loki had been ready to drop from exhaustion, he seemed so no longer as he scrambled atop his opponent, laying his staff across the man's throat with a shout.

"YIELD!"

The arena fell silent, all eyes upon the two men sprawled in the dirt until the man raised his hand in the air. Everyone was at once up from their seats with a roar. Eris heard a man exclaim beside her, "The final round is tomorrow! The Prince may yet become Asgard's champion!"

Eris stepped up onto the bench to see over the heads of the cheering crowd, watching Loki struggle to his feet, waving his staff in the air as the crowd grew louder. A man approached him, his hand out and as Loki shook it, Eris shrank back down to sit on the bench, her heart pounding. There was no way Mister Denehy could possibly pick her out of the crowd. There had to be thousands of people in the stands, the sun cast a noontime glare from overhead and the commotion of celebration was enough to give her cover, still she hadn't expected to feel so shaken when finally she saw him again. He was the last person she wanted to meet up with. Feeling angry, defeated, she stood up, grabbing Neve's wrist again.

"Come on, let's get back to the tavern. We don't want to keep Perth waiting too long."

"But you says you wanted to meet the...Prince Loki. Hasn't we got time?" Neve hopped up and down, trying to see over people's heads again.

"Another time. I'll let you try on my sparkly dresses again tonight if we can go now."

Neve clutched at Eris's arm, "Dress up! Oh I loves dress up! Can I stay in your bedroom? The kitchen gets terrible cold now as Winternights is upon us."

Eris trudged up the stone stairs toward the entrance they'd come through, "Sure, Perth never says anything, just gotta watch Willa, she's liable to give us trouble. You can come up after she goes to bed."

"...slit her throat," Neve muttered as they broke free from the chaos of the arena to wind their way through the city streets back to the Oak and Thistle.

When they flew through the front door of the tavern, Eris spied Sulyir at his usual corner table with his ale and bowl of grain. At the end of nearly every day, he could be found at the Oak and Thistle. He refused to let Willa wait on him, preferring Eris or Neve to attend to his needs. Perth, at Eris's urging, had procured employment and simple lodging for Sulyir at a farm a couple rods outside the city and Sulyir had promptly paid off his debt to the tavern.

Eris had also started to engage him in conversation, talking about her work at the Hammer and Serpent, spinning a back story for the time being, that she hoped sounded believable. She'd started to trust him even though experience had taught her countless lessons where trust had given it to her but good every time, yet she continued to find time for him each night.

As they sailed past his table, he nodded to them, "I was of a mind you were going to the games."

"We did," Eris called back to him, blanching when Neve added.

"She couldn't see her prince today, he was busy sparring."

"Neve!" Eris yanked her forward, guiding her into the kitchen, "Help Cabel and Willa with the evening meal. They'll be hungry patrons coming in soon."

Eris picked up Sulyir's empty mug to refill it, "Girl is more trouble than she's worth."

Sulyir smiled, "Who catches your eye then? A prince?"

Eris's hands shook. What harm could it be to tell him? He was a simple man from Muspelheim.

"Come now. All the realms have sent their finest men for the games, what prince has caught your eye?"

"Loki," it was barely a whisper but Sulyir's eyes grew wide.

"Odin's war prize? Indeed?"

"ERIS!" came Caleb's roar from the kitchen followed by a loud hiss and a screech.

"Damnit, we'll talk later. I'll get your ale in a minute...NEVE!" Eris trotted into the kitchen.

Sulyir sat back, his mind working over the old stories he'd grown up hearing, of the great war between his people and the Asgardians, how Odin had laid waste to the King's fortress in Jotunnheim, tearing the infant crown prince Loki from Farbauti's arms, running her through with his spear and then in a fit of twisted compassion, claiming the Jotunn prince as his own, contaminating him as Sulyir himself was now contaminated, taking from him his heritage, his birthright, bringing him here to Asgard to suffer as the second son of a tyrant.

Sulyir listened to the sounds of shouting coming from the kitchen, took a coin from his pocket, set it on the table and walked out of the tavern into the cursed sunshine to make his way back to the farm, his thoughts still racing about his head like a raging winter storm.

The old man stood staring at the empty benches, stroking his beard as the crowd milled about, filtering out of the arena.

"Avrum, there you are!"

Mister Mindel looked up to see the concerned face of Chenai, one of the young Asgardian scholars with whom he'd been studying hovering before him on the other side of the bench.

"I was looking all over for you! I thought you had been swept away by the tide of citizens. Are you well?"

Avrum stared at the bench hard. He'd been too far away when he pivoted about on the bench a dozen or so rows below her but when he caught sight of the woman speaking with her black skinned companion, he was sure he was looking at...

"...a ruekh."

"What say you?" Chenai put a hand on Avrum's shoulder, bringing him back to the present.

"A ghost, my friend. I thought I saw a ghost," when Chenai tilted his head, Avrum smiled, "...spirit? Ah...the mind plays tricks on a meshuggeneh. Let us wish the day's victors continued success and hasten back to our quarters before Saval heads to dinner without us."

With a final look at the bench and a shake of his head, Avrum began the climb to the top of the stands, a hand on Chenai's arm to steady himself, his cane tucked into the crook of his elbow.