Special As You Are
by Sauron Gorthaur
Loki stared despondently at his reflection in the mirror. His reflection stared back with an equally morose expression. Solemnly, the eleven-year-old boy tugged a single lock of hair down over his forehead and watched his mirror image absently finger the black strand, which stood out like an ink-stain against his fair skin. With a little sigh, he released it and let it bounce back up to mingle with the erratic tangle of the remainder of his uncombed hair. It was still a little damp from his recent bath, even after a substantial amount of toweling, and at this point he would usually begin working methodically at combing it into a sleek, flat surface around his scalp, but today he made no move to begin mastering the unruly curls. Instead, he just stared.
Late afternoon light flooded yellow through the large window dominating the west-facing wall of his bedroom. Loki sat at his dressing table across from the window, and the light illuminated his image in the mirror with an aura of gold that seemed to hover about his head and shoulders in the glass, giving him an angelic appearance that he wasn't sure he deserved.
Most available flat spaces in his room had long since been converted into makeshift bookshelves, and his dressing table was no different. Books lined the ash wood top on either side of the mirror, propped upright by two stone bookends carved like coiling serpents, which had been a birthday present from his parents several years ago. Histories, spell books, collections of tales with varying levels of fictitious content, and even several once-empty notebooks that now contained notes he'd taken on magic from his lessons sat side by side. However, Loki's attention at the moment was drawn to one book only, an oversized tome with golden clasps that was currently sitting right in front of him, between himself and the mirror. The runes across the front read Gullveig's Book of the Seidr Arts for Sorcerers of Intermediate and Advanced Skill.
Loki swallowed nervously. It seemed ridiculous, how all morning his stomach had been in knots with eagerness to get through his lessons, but now that the time had finally come, he found he barely had the strength of will to reach out and unclasp the book resting right under his nose. It had taken him days of scouring the library shelves before he found a spell that appeared even mildly adequate for what he wanted, and even then, he had only come across it by sneaking into the restricted section, where the books on advanced magic were kept. Knowing Loki's propensity for trouble, there was no chance that the librarian would have let the young prince walk out with an advanced spell book, especially unaccompanied by his mother or one of his tutors, so Loki had disguised the tome with a simple but effective illusion which transformed its appearance to a ratty, dog-eared book of Midgardian folktales which Loki had loved as a child and checked out on such a regular basis that the librarian barely gave it a second glance when he brought it to the door. Hugging the book to his chest, Loki had made a dash to his private chambers before anyone could detect his trick.
But now that the book was lying on his desk and he was all alone in the quiet of his bedroom, he wasn't quite so sure of himself. He was good at magic – a prodigy even if one took Queen Frigga's praise at face-value, though Loki was pretty sure all mothers exaggerated when it came to their own children – but he found himself suddenly wondering whether he was truly good enough. He'd been all confidence in the library, but now that the spell lay at his fingertips, he wasn't nearly so sure of his abilities. Sure, he had mastered plenty of advanced spells for his age, garnering significant praise from his private tutors, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he just might not quite measure up to the standards for "intermediate" or "advanced" of one of the most acclaimed spellcasters in Asgardian history. Loki felt suddenly small and insignificant, unsure of his abilities over even the most simple of his repertoire of illusions.
He shook the feeling off angrily, ruffling a hand through his messy hair. This was why he was here, wasn't it? So he wouldn't feel so insignificant and unsure of himself anymore?
Before he could lose his nerve again, he flicked open the clasp and rifled through the pages. They were thick and heavy, many gilded and decorated with elaborate designs done in paint that still gave the pages faint odors reminiscent of the pigment ingredients. Dust filmed the edges of the parchment, causing him to sneeze a few times as he searched.
In a few minutes, he found what he was looking for. Delicately, he ran his fingers over the gilded border, done in an intricate braided weave that looped the entire page. The runes at the top were gilded too, and Loki could feel the slick texture as he brushed his fingertips over the heading, watching the letters glint in the light coming over his shoulders.
A Spell of Physical Change: To Change the Color in Any Object of Physical Substance to the Appearance of Gold.
He chewed his bottom lip as he read carefully through the entire spell, trying to ignore the unease settling in the pit of his stomach. This was much more complicated than the simple stationary illusions that he practiced daily with his tutors, or even the more advanced moving illusions that he was working on with Mother. Of course, such a spell as this would have been easy for a sorceress such as the queen, but Loki didn't like to think what her response would be if he went to her with the book and his request. He couldn't quite stop himself from squirming a little as his thoughts hit a touchy nerve. Even if he was completely successful, what was everyone going to say? Mother and Father would likely be angry that he'd attempted advanced magic on his own with no supervision. But if everything turned out fine, it shouldn't be a problem, right? Surely they had to agree that he was old enough to make a decision like this on his own if he wanted. And what about Thor? Would Thor think he was being silly or that he was trying to purposefully annoy him? He shook his head, scowling. Well, even if Thor did think he was being silly, it wasn't any of Thor's business, was it? Why should he care what Thor thought?
He read the spell again, internalizing it the way he'd learned to do, until he could feel the magic tingling inside, sparking at his fingertips and toes, coiling in his internal organs like the serpents on his bookends. The spell was truly little more than an illusion – it would not transform the actual pigments in his hair – but it was far more substantial than the enchantments he usually worked with. This spell would not vanish with a touch, which was essential to his plan. Yet it meant he would have to have exceptional control over the threads of seidr that he wove together with the magic runes on the page before him. He worked on emptying his emotions, smoothing his mind out into a calm expanse on which he could work the spell without distraction.
He took a deep breath and began.
Eyes closed, whether for concentration or out of fear of watching his reflection he wasn't sure, he worked slowly and carefully through the spell. His scalp tingled and a chill spread down across his forehead, while his cheeks felt oddly flushed with attention in contrast. He could feel the magic working, flowing out of him and filling the air around him with a tingling haze. He labored methodically, from his crown to his nape, working the fingers of magic into his hair the same way he rubbed in the hair cream that kept his naturally erratic curls sleek and flat. He could tell it was working with some inner sense, and he felt his spirit lifting and his confidence returning. Hadn't Mother told him just the other day that at his age even she hadn't mastered the flying illusion of a lark that he'd sent flapping around the dining hall? This wasn't so hard after all. Maybe Gullveig's spells weren't all they were cracked up to be!
There was no doubt that he'd get some surprised looks the next time he showed up in court, but it would be worth it and the strange looks wouldn't last long. Everyone would get used to his new golden hair soon enough. And it wasn't as if he didn't get looks now. He saw it every time he was introduced by his parents to some ambassador or visitor of Vanaheim or Alfheim, questions in the strangers' eyes when they looked at him that they were too polite to ask. How did this boy, the prince of Asgard, come to look so different from the rest of his family? What was wrong with him? He was weak where he should be strong, dark where he should be light, light where he should be dark. He was a shadow in the noonday sun, a drop of black ink on a white parchment, dross on the gold of Asgard. So often, he felt as if he was being simultaneously ostracized and put in the spotlight; wherever he went, he stood out, and it made him feel awkward and uncomfortable, longing to shrink into the shadows, even as he knew that he already lived in a shadow – Thor's – and no one was probably bothering to watch him anyway.
Well, he was sick and tired of being different. He was sick and tired of the looks that questioned who and what he truly was. Magic couldn't change everything – he would still pale in comparison to his older brother – but at least he could give himself this. Maybe he'd feel normal for once. Maybe he'd feel like he fit in.
Maybe Father would look at him with the same pleased glint in his eye as when he looked at Thor.
Finally, Loki felt that he was done. He sat still and quiet for several moments, breathing through his nose and focusing on his sense of accomplishment. What was he going to look like with blond hair? He hoped he looked all right, but he wasn't sure how he would tell. All he'd ever known was his ink-black hair, so anything different was going to seem odd for a while. But he supposed he'd get used to it, just like everyone around him would. Maybe someday everyone would forget that his hair wasn't naturally golden, that he'd ever been different…
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
And stared.
His hair was blue.
Even if Loki had liked the color blue (he didn't), it wasn't a particularly nice shade of blue. In fact, it was quite hideous, more of a blueish, greenish, greyish color that made it look a little like there was mold growing all over his head. For several seconds, all Loki could do was gape in shocked horror at his reflection. Then, as if he believed the mirror was somehow playing tricks with his eyes, he pulled a handful of hair down over his forehead, crossing his eyes in an attempt to make out its color. It was no trick. His hair was definitely blue.
Shoving down the panic that had suddenly jumped to life in his belly, Loki leaned over the spell book, desperately skimming it for a clue as to what had gone wrong. He was sure he had read and performed the magic correctly. He feverishly read the page several times, trying to find his mistake. It was no use; he couldn't find anything he'd done incorrectly yet obviously somewhere he'd made a misstep. Maybe it was something in the nature of the spell. Or his hair. He was fairly sure that hair counted as a "physical substance" but spells could be obnoxiously particular sometimes. Maybe it was the fact that his hair was black, but the spell was assuming that the enchanter was beginning with a neutral color.
He tweaked the spell in an attempt to compensate and tried again, but his panic and shock had eaten away at both his confidence and his control. His concentration slipped and the magic left a long streak of bright red down the left side of his hair.
Struggling not to completely lose his façade of composure, he tried again, once again improvising with the spell in the hope of righting whatever he'd originally overlooked. This time his shaky control left a zig-zag of pale pink down his scalp.
Tears of frustration, horror, and panic began to press themselves up into Loki's eyes. Abandoning his attempts to complete the spell and turn his hair golden, he began to work on reversing the spell. Having black hair was better than having pink-scarlet-moldy-blue hair.
He hadn't thought it would be difficult to simply undo the magic he had already wrought, but as he started working on returning his hair to its natural color, he quickly realized that this was not the case. As his panic shoved its way up his throat from his stomach, building in his throat like a scream, Loki went through a quick succession of spells that left his hair a patchwork of pale green, muddy yellow-brown, hot pink, lavender, and deep rose in addition to the colors that had already been there.
Tears spilled down the boy's cheeks as he desperately fought the magic. At this point, he'd have been happy to see his hair return to any uniform color that was half-way normal. But with his control completely lost and his emotions clogging his mind and his panic beating a loud rhythm against the inside of his skull, the situation soon became hopeless. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting here in front of the mirror, feverishly working spell after spell, but the sun had sunk beyond his line of sight behind his reflection. Exhaustion filled him, but still he kept on fighting, knowing he had little choice of doing anything else. There was no way he could show up to dinner like this. The very thought overwhelmed him with unbearable humiliation.
Yet there was only so long he could continue fighting reality. His quick mind began frantically calculating desperate schemes of how he could remain locked in his room without arousing suspicion, but every idea fell flat. If he didn't fix this very, very soon, someone was going to come along eventually and discover the mortifying mess he'd gotten himself into.
But finally, exhaustion and despair won out. He released the magic entirely and slumped forward. Laying his multi-colored head on the table, he broke down and sobbed.
A knock on his door roused him from his misery, causing his heart to leap into his mouth as he jerked upright. Instinctively, he shut Gullveig's Book of the Seidr Arts for Sorcerers of Intermediate and Advanced Skill with a bang and shoved it under his table.
"Loki?" Frigga's voice came from the other side of the door.
"Don't come in!" Loki cried, panic putting an undignified squeak in his voice.
"Loki, are you all right?" Frigga had heard the panic in his voice apparently. He heard her try the door handle, but he'd locked it before beginning the spell.
He tried to think of a reasonable justification for the panic, saw his discarded towel from his bath, and said the first thing that came to mind. "I just bathed. I…I'm not fully clad yet."
He immediately cursed his lack of ingenuity. While that particular excuse might explain his briefly panicked insistence against Frigga coming in, it was a problem that could be rectified with distinct ease. He was going to have to come up with something better if he was to keep his secret. The thought of his mother seeing him in his current state, with hair every color of the Bifrost and a tear-smeared face, which would undoubtedly lead to a confession about the book and the botched spell, was beyond humiliating. He could say he was sick, but then Frigga would insist on taking him to the healers. He could think of no reasonable excuse as to why he'd lock himself up in his room and refuse to come out. Vaguely, he wondered if anyone would notice if he developed a sudden obsession with wearing hats wherever he went…
"Sweetheart, are you coming down to dinner?" He could tell from Frigga's voice that she was still suspicious but was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"I'm not really hungry," he answered, hoping she wouldn't press the issue. "I…I've been feeling tired all day and I think I want to go to bed early." He yawned for emphasis. Surely, if he had the whole night, he'd be able to get his hair back to normal by morning.
"Are you sure you're all right, sweetheart? You don't sound well." There was motherly concern in Frigga's voice but there was an iron edge to it as well, that no-nonsense tone that meant she was going to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. Loki glanced nervously at the door. Without any enchantments, a simple lock like the one on his door would be nearly effortless for an enchantress like Frigga to open. But he knew the queen wouldn't force her way into his bedroom without his permission, which pacified him a little.
When he didn't answer, Frigga spoke again. "Loki, what's the matter? Please let me in, sweetheart. Whatever's wrong, we'll fix it together. I promise I won't be angry. Just let me in."
Loki glanced at his hideous reflection in the mirror and felt his misery pushing at his insides again. Deep down, he knew he wasn't capable of fixing the mess on his own, even if he had a hundred nights to work on it. More tears streamed down his face, blurring his view of his reflection, and with a quiet little hiccup of a sob, he sent a flick of magic outward to unlock the door with a soft click. He turned away.
The door opened and he heard Frigga's soft steps enter then stop abruptly. He could sense her gaze, then, "Oh, Loki," and his mother was pulling him gently into her lap and turning him towards her.
Loki was past the age when he would have usually deigned to let himself be coddled by his mother, but he was too exhausted from the magic and too upset to truly care. He buried his face in her shoulder, feeling her long, golden hair brushing across his cheeks, and gave himself up to broken sobbing.
Frigga didn't say anything, did not ask what had happened, but simply rubbed his back until his sobs transformed to loud sniffles. She slipped him an embroidered handkerchief which he blew his nose on loudly. Gathering himself together enough to feel embarrassed again, he slid off her lap onto the seat beside her and sat, hanging his head and refusing to meet her eyes.
She sighed and reached out a slender hand, tipping his face up to hers. He kept his eyes lowered, his cheeks still flushed brilliantly and tear channels still glistening down to his chin. He could feel her scrutinizing him, and he awkwardly rubbed the back of his hand against his nose, unable to keep still under her gaze.
Frigga turned away from him, and moments later he heard the rustle of pages. Glancing up, he saw the queen holding the spell book. She looked back at him and shook her head a little, but there was a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. "I don't know what to ask first: how you smuggled a restricted spell book into your bedroom or how you managed that," she said, flickering her gaze back over his hair at the final words. "Though I suppose the second question is obvious in light of the first. Perhaps I should ask why."
"Can you fix it?" Loki mumbled, dropping his gaze again and simultaneously avoiding her question.
Frigga sighed, and then her hands were on his shoulders, gently turning him around so that she could have a full view of the catastrophe that had once been his hair. He kept his gaze lowered from the mirror, refusing to look at his own reddened eyes, flushed cheeks, and the mop of tangled colors growing out of his head. Frigga's gaze felt like hot coals on his nape and shame spilled through his chest, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The thought of his mother scrutinizing his failure made him wish the floor would open up and swallow him.
There was a rustle of thick pages and the sound of the queen softly murmuring to herself as she skimmed through the spell. A moment later, she set the book back down. "I think it should be straightforward enough to fix with no harm done," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Just tilt your head up a bit. There. Now sit still."
Loki squeezed his eyes shut, still refusing to look at the mirror, and felt his mother's fingers in his hair. The soft tingle of magic rippled over his scalp, but this time he had to resist the urge to shrink away from it. Still, focusing on the feel of the magic kept his thoughts away from his anger at himself and the shame that still coated his mouth with a taste like bile.
Though it seemed like an eternity, it couldn't have been more than two minutes later that Frigga leaned back, smoothing down his hair with one hand as she did so. "There, I think that is a great improvement."
Loki cracked open his eyes, squinting distrustingly at his reflection, but all he saw in the mirror was a boy with familiar inky hair. He ran both his hands through it, reassuring himself that no strands of blue or red still lurked amidst the black curls. He dropped his hands to his sides and shot Frigga a clandestine glance out of the corner of his eye, dreading what was coming next.
Frigga must have seen the look, for she met his eyes in the mirror. She rose, only to seat herself on the edge of his bed and gave him a pointed look that he instantly recognized. He plodded over and plopped down on the bed beside her, swinging his feet awkwardly and awaiting whatever scolding was coming.
"Thank you," he said in a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, staring at his knees.
"You're welcome, Loki," Frigga answered. There was a moment of awkward silence, then Frigga said, "Would you care to explain now?"
"Not really," Loki muttered sullenly.
Frigga sighed then turned, crossing one leg so that she was propped sideways on the edge of the bed, facing him directly. "Loki, look at me."
He lifted his eyes.
"Loki, that was a very complicated spell you were attempting to manage completely on your own. You're lucky you didn't do more permanent damage with it. I know you're eager to advance in your lessons, but the responsibility that comes with magic is not something you should use lightly. There is a reason that so few become accomplished sorcerers. I want you to promise me that you won't use advanced magic without proper supervision again."
Hmph, as if I'll be trying that again any time soon, Loki thought morosely. "I promise," he said in a dull monotone.
"Good," Frigga replied in a firm voice.
There was another silence, in which neither the queen nor the prince moved, and Loki's gaze started to drop again, unable to maintain the uncomfortable eye contact with his mother. He shifted and hunched his shoulders, glancing at Frigga from under his eyelashes. "You're not going to tell Father about this, are you?" he asked hesitantly, not sure if he wanted to know the answer or not.
Frigga folded her hands in her lap. "Do you think your father should know?"
"No!" Loki shook his head violently. "Please don't tell him. I promise I won't try it ever again." He swallowed, disgusted with himself for the pitiful plea filling his voice. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention it to Thor either," he added, trying to keep his treacherous voice neutral to hide just how much he didn't want Thor to ever find out about this episode.
Frigga leaned forward, bringing herself down to his height to look him right in the eyes. "I believe I can manage to make sure this stays between the two of us."
A tiny bit of the weight in Loki's chest lifted.
Frigga reached out and caressed his cheek tenderly. "I think it would be best if you told me just what you thought you were trying to accomplish with that spell."
Frigga's touch and the love the suffused it felt better than Loki would ever let himself admit. But at the same time, it softened a little of the hard protective shell he'd thrown up already around the whole disaster. If anyone could possibly understand what he was feeling, surely it would be the queen.
"I just wanted to have blond hair like Thor," he muttered with a tiny sniffle.
Frigga's fingers paused at the edge of his hair and he sensed a moment of surprise, but one she quickly recovered from. She stroked his dark locks. "You have beautiful hair, sweetheart. Why would you want to change it?"
"Just wanted something different," Loki said with a shrug.
Frigga again lifted his chin, which had drooped down to his chest once more. Her eyes glinted knowingly. "Why do I have the distinct feeling you're not telling me the truth, Loki?"
Loki barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How did mothers get so good at detecting lies and half-truths? It was like a super power. Though, he had to admit, he'd given her plenty of opportunities to practice.
"The truth, Loki." Frigga tapped him under the chin. "What's the matter?"
Unbidden, tears welled back up in Loki's eyes. His throat closed up again like someone was squeezing it, and inside his chest, his heart ached. He looked up into his mother's expectant face and felt something break inside, letting forth a gush of emotion. "I…I want to be like everyone else," he choked through the thickness in his throat. "Everybody looks at me like there's something wrong with me. I'm tired of being different. I just want to look like everyone else so I'll be normal too. I hate being different!" He gritted out the final words, a snarl curving his lips.
There was concern on Frigga's face. Loki ignored it and pushed on, unable to stop himself now that he had started. "No one else has hair that looks like mine. Why would everyone else have light hair and mine is so dark? I don't look like you, or Father, or Thor. Everyone thinks I'm a freak."
"That is not true, Loki." Frigga's voice was stern, her lips thin and tight.
Loki pushed her hand away. "Yes, it is. I'm a freak."
"Loki!" Frigga reached out again and took him firmly by the shoulder. "Don't say that about yourself. There is nothing wrong with you."
Loki opened his mouth, a new retort rising on his tongue, but Frigga pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. Her other hand remained firmly on his shoulder, as she fixed her clear gaze on his tear-fogged one. "Loki, I have something very important to tell you, and I want to make sure you are listening," she said. "Are you ready to listen?"
Loki nodded half-heartedly.
"Of course you're different, Loki," Frigga said. "That's what makes you special."
It was not the response Loki had been expecting. Automatically, he found his attention drawn to his mother, more attention than he'd been planning on giving. He'd expected reassurances that he did fit in, that the differences were all in his imagination. He had not expected for her to agree with him.
As if sensing that she had captured his attention, Frigga continued. "You're different than Thor. You're different than most Asgardians. But that is nothing for you to be ashamed of. Thor can do things that you cannot do, and you can do things that Thor cannot. We live in a vast universe filled with countless worlds. How very dull would it be if everyone was the same?"
Loki pondered this silently. It was not something he'd really thought about before. Of course, it was silly to think of a universe where everyone was exactly the same. But he had never heard his differences described as assets before. He'd only ever thought of his differences as something that made him inferior to everyone else. He wasn't sure though if he still thought that was the case or not.
"Yes, you can change the color of your hair, but do you believe that will change who you are?" Frigga's gaze was almost frighteningly intense; it was clear that she felt what she was saying was of the utmost importance. "Remember this, Loki. What you look like on the outside is not what truly matters. It's what's in here-" she tapped his chest "-that makes all the difference. You are special just the way you are. And don't let anyone ever lead you to believe otherwise."
Despite the solemnity of the moment and the heaviness still in his heart, Loki couldn't keep the edge of his mouth from quirking. "Even if I had hair the color of Bifrost?" he asked with a glint in his eyes.
Frigga smiled. "Even if you had hair the color of Bifrost. Or a tail like a bilgesnipe. Or long, pointy ears. Or blue skin. It doesn't matter. What you bring to Asgard is just as important as what your brother brings to us."
She pointed to the window beside his bed. "Look there. Tell me what you see."
Loki frowned. "I don't know. The sky? The sun?"
"And if you were to look out that same window a few hours from now, what would you see then?"
"The night, I guess."
Frigga nodded. "Day and night, we need them both. If it was always day, we would never have the cool and quiet of night during which to sleep. And if it was always night, we would never have the light that we need to do our work and live our lives. Both are gifts, equally precious. If the night no longer wished to be the night and decided it would rather be the day, where would that leave us then?"
Loki rolled his eyes, just a little. "Me wanting to change the color of my hair isn't going to unbalance the worlds, Mother."
Frigga's face was still solemn but there was a knowing smile at the edge of her eyes. "I think we both know that this isn't really about the color of your hair, Loki."
Loki sat quiet and still, pondering this. She was right, of course. Had he really thought that he could change who he was just by changing the color of his hair, such a short while ago? Yes, having golden hair like Thor and Frigga and Fandral and so many other Asgardians would make him feel like he fit here a little more, but it wouldn't change the fact that he enjoyed his magic lessons more than his weapon training, that he'd rather curl up with a book in some quiet corner than sit in the Great Hall downing mead and meat and boasting about feats, that his quick mind was something that most of Asgard's denizens neither understood nor cared to understand. Having blond hair wasn't automatically going to transform him into a double of his brother. And frankly, Loki wasn't sure he would like being a double of his brother. Thor could be such an oaf at times. Loki thought he might go crazy if he was only able to use his brains as rarely as Thor seemed to use his too much of the time. Without meaning to, he let out a little snicker.
He muffled the sound as best he could and gave Frigga a sideways glance, but his bubble of mirth soon dissolved. Yes, he liked his books and his ideas and his magic. But there was no escaping the fact that his differences made him a disappointment to so many around him. Being different just made him…different. And wasn't "special" just a nice word for "different"?
He swallowed. "You said day and night are both important. But what's so important about what I can do?" He swallowed again, his voice suddenly growing tight. "Thor thinks my lessons with you are just learning tricks." And aren't they? he thought. What use could an illusion of a lark flying around the room possibly be?
Frigga reached out, running her fingers through his hair. "Thor thinks you're just learning tricks, hmm? Why do you think Thor spends so much time training?"
"Because he likes it," Loki answered promptly.
Frigga smiled. "Yes, he does like it. But that's not the only reason. He'd be required to train whether he liked it or not. But no, why do your father and I insist on Thor's training?"
Loki wrinkled his nose in thought. Sometimes it annoyed him how his mother refused to give him straight answers but instead made him figure it out himself. On the other hand, he liked how Frigga always treated him like she expected him to be able to figure out the answers on his own. He never quite felt like a child with his mother. She always made him feel older.
"Because he might have to fight wars like Father did before I was born?" he finally hazarded.
Frigga had pulled a comb out of his chest of drawers. "Correct. As King of Asgard, one day Thor will be tasked with keeping the Nine Realms in order," she said as she began to run the comb over Loki's head. "We have many enemies, and there are many who would challenge the authority of Asgard if they suspected the king was not prepared to meet their challenge. Thor will be Protector and Champion of the Realms. One day, when he is old enough, he will wield Mjölnir. If the Fates are kind, he will inherit peace, but he must be prepared. The King of Asgard must always be a strong warrior."
Loki chewed the edge of his lip, keeping his head still as Frigga combed a stubborn curl flat behind his ear. "But only if there's a war," he said. "If you're a clever enough king to keep the peace, you don't need to be good at fighting."
Even though he couldn't see her, there was something in Frigga's touch that made him sure she was smiling. "And do you think Thor will be a clever enough king?"
Loki's lips twitched. "I somehow doubt it," he said, lilting the words to make it clear he was offering a snarky understatement. Inside, he snorted to himself. If Thor didn't someday offend someone accidentally with his extravagant boasts and rash fist, he'd probably do something purposefully just to have someone to fight. Loki had noticed that Thor's sense of strategy often tended to run along the lines of figuring out the quickest and most direct way of bashing the enemy over the head.
Frigga scooted over to begin combing the other half of his head, propping herself up directly behind him on the bed. "So, do you think Thor might need someone around who has good, clever ideas and is good at convincing people to listen to those good, clever ideas? A younger brother, perhaps?"
Loki sat perfectly still, staring out the window. This was something of a revelation. As the future Prince Regent, he'd known he would have duties, but he'd never quite seen those duties – which he'd always viewed as boringly clerical – in this personal light.
"Your father was always a strong warrior and a wise leader," Frigga went on. "But even so, there were more than a few times when he needed a second wise mind to advise him, and there were even a few times when that second wise mind kept him from doing some rather rash things that would not have been good at all for the Realms."
Loki tipped his head back until he could see her. He raised an eyebrow. "I think I know who that "wise mind" was, Mother."
With a thin smile, Frigga tapped him on the nose then pushed his head back down so that she could deal with the tangled curls at his nape. "Yes, yes, Loki, you're brilliant in your deductions. Now keep your head still or you're going to undo everything I've just done."
Loki obediently kept his head still. "What about my magic though? Are they just tricks, Mother?"
"Tricks? Of course they are."
Loki opened his mouth to protest, but Frigga spoke before he did. "Has your trainer taught you and Thor how to feint with a sword?"
Loki almost nodded then remembered Frigga's admonishment to keep still. "Of course," he said. "We learned how to do that ages ago. It's a basic."
"And isn't that 'just' a trick?"
Once again, Loki found himself without a ready answer. And once again, Frigga continued after giving him a moment to reflect on this fact. "Magic has a great many uses, just as a sword has a great many uses. The more comfortable you are with a sword, the more ways you know how to use it, the more prepared you will be, and magic is no different. There is nothing more shameful about using a twist of magic to disarm an opponent than there is in using a twist of your sword. Both take skill. It just so happens that the gift of magic is rare in Asgard. The majority of our people must train their bodies the hardest, for if their sword-arm fails in battle, they fail. But if your sword-arm were ever to fail, you would still have your mind, and that can be just as deadly a weapon as any sword in Asgard. If anyone mocks you for your skills, they have underestimated you beyond their reckoning." She put a hand on his shoulder. "There are always more warriors, but there are few who can go to battle and attack a foe with both arm and mind."
She squeezed his shoulder. "I can guarantee you, Loki, a day will come when Thor will need your 'tricks', just as a day will come when you appreciate having Thor's strength alongside you in a fight."
"Not if I can't get the stupid spells right," Loki muttered.
"And I think we both know," Frigga said, "that the spell you attempted this afternoon is not the one to judge your abilities on. And I don't think that dwelling on this afternoon is something that will do anyone good. Anyone," she repeated firmly.
She unscrewed the lid of his hair cream and rubbed the teeth of the comb in the jar. "Besides, outside of a battle, there is little use for a sword. Magic, however, can enrich Asgard in any number of ways." She began combing the cream into his hair. "There is nothing wrong with you. You are certainly not a freak. You are simply different. Asgard needs you, just the way you are, every bit as much as it needs Thor. And I can tell you first hand that you being different is a very wonderful thing."
Loki squirmed a little, his eleven-year-old boyishness embarrassed by his mother's sentimentality, but his eleven-year-old heart soaking up each word. He sat silently as Frigga finished his hair. The queen turned him around to face the mirror. "There, how is that, Loki dear?"
He looked at his reflection. His hair shone as sleek and glossy as obsidian, smoothed to perfection under Frigga's administrations. His face was no longer the pale and frightened mask of exhaustion that it had been when the queen first came in. He squared his shoulders, trying to look worthy of Frigga's praise. No, he forced himself to think, I am worthy of Mother's praise. I am special. Just as I am.
Frigga leaned down beside him, and in the mirror their eyes met. She smiled. "Now what do you say about coming down for some supper, my little magician?"
Loki returned her smile. "I think I like the sound of that," he said. But then he frowned. "Well, just as long as no one asks me to change the color of the food."