Invitation
By Rey

13. The Rumours

It is very hard to enjoy a treat – which is truly a treat to my palate, in this case, surprisingly, with how the "sweet snow" is a perfect blend of sweet and sour and a tinge of bitter – when, at the same time, I must listen to how the jötnar young and old gathered in this previously empty "little" sweet-snow eatery gossiping about the courtiers, the royal guards, and even the monarch.

"The Monarch lost their newborn firstborn to death and to kidnapping," Elder Lýða, seated across from me, explains lowly when, a few seats away on my side of the bench, Jormúðr – "Jori", they are always insisting to be called, a child who is unbelievably three centuries older than I am – tells everyone in a stage whisper morbid stories – surely not recountings? – about how the Monarch punished the families who would make their children impersonate "the lost ones."

"How many children does the Monarch have?" I ask cautiously, reasonably sure that Eðlenstr – who is terribly subdued now, somehow, ever since we landed here – has told them how we met however long ago it has been, and therefore they know very well how ignorant I am about this realm's everyday history and politics.

"Two," the jötun grunts unhappily. "Just the two, and twins at that, so the poor surviving half must be suffering the lack, not only their dam. So you can see how horrible those creatures were, to taunt them so with such a terrible hope, time and time again."

I give a handwave of a shrug, imitating one of the gestures the jötnar often use. "I cannot say," I offer, even more careful than before, when they scowl at me. "I am only a visitor here. I am not a parent, either."

"Youth is no excuse for lack of empathy or even just sympathy, child," they point out, even more unhappy than before, then let out a sigh. "Well, in any case, those stories have a grain of truth in them, and let that be a very useful free lesson to you: You had better not upset a grieving dam so. But do not believe what you hear blindly, child."

"I know that already," I huff. "I was not born just yesterday, after all."

Their gimlet eye quails me before I can catch myself.

But their gentle, wry rebuke is worse: "Are you in the habbit of needling people into adding on to your misery when you are feeling miserable, child?"

I look down and shovel another spoonfull of the sauce-drizzled, fruit-littered fine snow into my mouth, cheeks burning.

Fortunately, Elder Lýða does not pursue the awkward, embarrassing matter further, and I am allowed to eat in relative peace, while listening to the many stories flying round.

But all too soon, the teachers call for silence, and Eðlenstr, standing at the far end of my bench, once more instructs us on how to greet the Monarch, should we be lucky enough to experience such.

I glare at that particular jötun when they corner me, picking me up into their arms, while the others are filing out of the eatery, although there is not much heat in it given how miserable and somehow hopelessly yearning they look. "Are you going to tell me how you knew my mother, now?" I demand in a low voice, nearly inaudible amidst the noises the pupils and some of the teachers make. "We are here, and you have not fulfilled that promise to me until now."

They glare back at me, but soon look away, fidgeting with some of my hair.

Still looking not at me, they murmur, "Be as gentle and understanding as you can should you meet the Monarch, please, child, and none of your cheek. If you have not deduced it yet, you are of the same age as the lost ones. I…. Grief makes – grief can make people do and say and think things they otherwise won't do or say or think."

They fall silent, afterwards, just cuddling me close and seeming to refrain from doing or saying… or doing and saying something.

I… don't like this version of Eðlenstr, I find. – They are odd, they are cheerful, they are overly colourful. They are not supposed to be morose or restrained or… well, like this.

"Did the Monarch do something to you?" I switch demands.

They twitch.

I scowl.

"Not the Monarch," they confess at last, in a flat tone, when I let out a growl. "But… well, I ought to have been there, I ought to have taken the hit for them, but I wasn't there, and… well, things happened."

They twitch again.

"So you were… what? Banned from the palace?" I hazard a guess.

They answer by shoving me into Elder Lýða's arms and melting into the background without another word or look at me.

And all that Elder Lýða remarks about the tableau is: "Your misery loves company very much, it seems."

Damn. For being giant monsters, the jötnar are so apt in making me feel so small without ever looming over me.

And now, I must contend with possibly meeting Laufey, for the sake of my curiosity about the rumours – of all things!

Ah, damn it all.