Here's chapter two!

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The Troll

After being thoroughly beaten by one of the most powerful warriors in all of Asgard, Sigyn had gone to her girlfriend's house to sleep off the pain. Hours later, she wakes to Norell shaking her gently. She peels her eyes open, looking past her lover to see the light the from the setting sun gleam through the open window. It dances over the room, making the brown, wooden furniture appear nearly red.

"No," she groans, pushing her face farther into the plush, cream-colored pillows on Norell's bed. She had slept all day, barring a brief trip to the bathroom some time after noon, but with her head pounding as a result of her injured nose, it feels as though she had not slept a wink.

"Yes," Norell sighs, pulling Sigyn's hair away from her face. "Your shift starts in an hour."

Groaning again, Sigyn pushes herself up and rolls out of bed. "Why did I switch to the night shift?"

As she lurches into the adjoining washroom to freshen up, she hears Norell say, "Because it pays more?" Almost mindlessly, Sigyn nods in agreement as she scrubs her teeth clean.

Recently, the rent on the house her father leases to her and her mother had increased, though she cannot be sure as to why. It is in a middle-class neighborhood, the same as it always has been. He has made no repairs on it, so it is actually in worse condition than it had been when her mother had started renting it shortly after Sigyn had been born. Yet, for whatever reason, he had decided to increase the rent a few months ago, so she and her mother have been scrambling to make ends meet. In truth, they make enough money to keep up with the higher rent. However, they have been putting aside savings for years in order to purchase the house. Sigyn had switched to working nights for extra money so as to not disrupt their progress.

"You know," Norell says as Sigyn returns to the bedroom. "You could simply ask your father not to raise the rent. It is not as though he needs the money."

That much is true. The Lord Andor is a wealthy noble. He has no reason to press his illegitimate daughter for extra monies.

"Yes, I already tried that," Sigyn tells her. "Unfortunately, he and the Lady Magnhildr were not to be persuaded."

"Sorry, dear," Norell sighs, her arms crossed in displeasure.

"Part of me expected it," Sigyn admits. "I may not be one of those affluent snakes, but I share their blood. I know how they operate."

Norell shakes her head but does not respond. For as long as they have known one another, Sigyn has neglected to speak long of her father and stepmother. Norell, being a much more emotionally-available person who'd had a great relationship with her late parents, is always uncomfortable whenever Sigyn skirts around the subject of her father's family. The first time Sigyn had outright insulted them, they had gotten into a screaming match, Norell being unable to understand Sigyn's poor relationship with her father. Now, they wisely make the effort to end whatever conversation they are having before either one of them can get too upset.

Norell is a great girlfriend. She is sweet and considerate, generous to a fault, and always knows how to cheer up Sigyn when she is feeling down. All their trouble, Sigyn thinks, comes from her. She fears Norell may simply be too nice for her, whereas she is too dark and tortured for a healthy relationship, as dramatic as that sounds.

Willing to play along with her girlfriend's diversion tactics for what must be the hundredth time, Sigyn steps up to give her a quick peck on the lips. "I shall see you before my shift tomorrow."

She heads out, making for the garrison, Asgard's military headquarters. On her way there, she toys with the fringe of her new trim. She is bound to incur some abuse for having such a short haircut, she knows, though any taunts she may endure will not be anything new. As one of the few women in the military, she gets crap for everything she does. If she looks at all unkempt, she is told that she should put more effort into her appearance, but if she looks good, she is too vain. If she does her job poorly, that is why women should not be soldiers. However, if she does her job well, she is a show-off. The hypocrisies are endless.

After another few minutes of walking, she comes upon the garrison. It is a large building, sturdy and made of stone. It sits beside the palace and contains the near entirety of Asgard's military resources. There are countless storage rooms for weaponry, a commissary, barracks for on-call personnel, and offices for those of high command, and the grounds are littered with training arena for drills. Head held high, she strides into the building and makes her way to the women's changing room, which is rather small. Inside, there are twenty compartments, only eight of which are in use.

She nods to the women getting off work as she opens her locker, stoically ignoring the strange stares that come her way. For the dozenth time, she tries to put her hair up so that it will not look as though she cut it off in an anger-fueled lapse in judgment. Unfortunately, it is too short for even a ponytail. It hangs past the bottom of her helmet, making her look like a man.

It is with one final, displeased huff that she throws on the rest of her armor and heads to the prisons for her shift.

Twelve hours later, Sigyn is ready to call it quits.

"Hey, girl," one of the men in her unit calls as she walks past the commissary. "Why the long face, or wait—does it merely appear that way with your hair so short?"

She stops and turns her head to see the Corporal Yvor, a giant of a man who is as keen as he is short. He stands against a tall pillar with some of their colleagues, smirking at her from across the hall.

"Ha-ha. You are hilarious," she replies, utterly unimpressed, as well as drained from her shift. All night, she had been working as a guard in the prisons with other guards and prisoners alike poking fun at her.

"Now, what I fail to understand, witch," Yvor drawls as he takes slow steps toward her. "Is why you do not simply use your magic to grow out your hair again." His lips quirk in an annoying, condescending smirk.

"I am not a witch," Sigyn snaps, choosing not to address his dig about her magic. Unfortunately, she had never received formal training for her gifts. As such, her skillset is relatively limited. All she can really do is use a little telekinesis and manufacture a select few illusions. "And I'm off shift, so fuck off," she adds. As she stomps away, the sound of the other soldiers' laughter follows her down the corridor.

"Unbelievable," she mutters under her breath as she enters the women's locker room and goes about changing into her street clothes. The men always give her trouble, and while it is not too different from when they pick on the other women, she is a lieutenant. Besides the Captain Kettil and the Major Erling, she outranks every man in her unit, which puts them way out of line whenever they open their stupid mouths. If she ever makes captain, she sourly promises herself, she is going to punish them with the most revolting, tedious tasks of which she can think.

Once outside the garrison, she starts for home, though the sight of her half-sister loitering near the entrance brings her to a halt.

"No, no," she shouts as soon as Haldana notices her, bringing up her arms as though to shield herself from anymore of the other woman's thoughtlessness. "I am not going anywhere with you ever again. I have been humiliated enough for one lifetime."

"Come now," Haldana chides, smiling cheekily. "You know I did not expect Sif to be there so early in the day."

"That is quite the apology," Sigyn retorts, resuming her walk home. Despite her anger, she wonders who is really to blame for her current plight: the privileged daughter of a lord who has never faced any consequences for breaking the rules, or the fool who had gone along with her plans?

Her sister frowns and falls into step beside her. "Oh, very well. I'm sorry. Better?"

"Completely," she counters, voice laced with pointed sarcasm.

Having Sif beat the shit out of her was hard enough, but unluckily for her, she had managed to get her ass kicked in front of royalty. The worst part of the entire ordeal had been the way the Prince Loki had been appraising her after the fight was over. As though her skills were impressive for a peasant.

It is not to say she is upset with her station in life. Like most peasants, she cares very little for what the nobles think of her brood. However, as the illegitimate daughter of a lord, she in particular is frequently compared to those superior to her. She cannot say it does not sting from time to time.

"What do you want anyway," she asks her sister, mouth drawn into a tense grimace.

Haldana's lips turn up in a jesting smile. "Can I not visit my little sister simply because I want to?"

Sigyn gives her a blank stare. "I am older than you."

"Yes," grants Haldana, "but you are so small." She punctuates her statement by patting Sigyn on the head.

Sigyn bats her hand away and quickens her stride.

"Oh, come now. I only jest," Haldana exclaims, laughing. She runs ahead of her sister and blocks her path. "I did come here with actual news, you know." At Sigyn's expectant, raised eyebrow, she divulges, "I will be leaving on a quest in a few hours, so we'll not see one another for a few days."

"Oh, no," Sigyn groans dramatically, shoving past Haldana and continuing down the cobblestone road. "However will I get by without you?"

Her sister does not follow her, but she can hear the stomping of a foot behind her. "Rude!"

Truthfully, Sigyn does not mean to be curt with Haldana, but she has been having a bad day. As much pride as she feels serving and protecting Asgard, it can be difficult to enjoy. Not to mention, Haldana is a warrior, which means she gets to go on fantastic quests and explore other realms. For centuries, she has been revered as the Goddess of Battle and Caution. By contrast, the most adventure Sigyn gets is tamping down an uprising in Vanaheim or chasing fugitives through the foothills beyond the city.

She winds her way through the posh, aristocratic communities clustered on the far side of the castle until she reaches the busier, louder streets that characterize her neighborhood. Even so early in the morning, people are bustling about as businesses open their doors for the day. She waves at a few acquaintances as she goes, a serene smile finding its way onto her face. This part of town has always been where she feels most comfortable. She fits in easily. Hardly anyone cares who her parents are. Fewer still bother her about her profession. It is a calm, simple place.

Once she arrives at the two-story slate house that she shares with her mother, Walentyna, she carefully opens the door and quietly tiptoes inside. Walentyna does not know that she has chopped off most of her hair, and she does not want a lecture.

She walks through the kitchen and passes the contiguous living room, getting all the way up the stairs and halfway down the hall to her room before a woman with dark olive skin and long, black hair suddenly opens her door. Sigyn startles and jumps a foot into the air. This draws her mother's attention.

Walentyna's dark eyes widen to the size of saucers. "What on Asgard happened to you?"

Sorting her features into an expression of befuddlement, she wonders aloud, "Whatever do you mean?"

Walentyna snaps, "I mean, why do you have the hair of a prepubescent boy?" Her eyes somehow widen further as she approaches Sigyn. "And why is your nose so horribly bruised!"

"I am fine," Sigyn assures her, pushing Walentyna's probing hands away when they go for her face. "I merely got whacked in the face by a goddess."

Walentyna groans, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. "How many times have I told you not to fight with your sister? She has had formal training. Your skills simply do not compare—"

"I had formal training when I entered the military," Sigyn interrupts, voice louder than she had intended. At her mother's pointed stare to lower her voice, she does just that before continuing. "And while I do best Haldana occasionally, that is beside the point. She and I did not fight."

Crossing her arms, Walentyna queries, "Then pray tell, who punched you in the face?"

"She elbowed me," the younger woman deflects, mumbling.

"Sigyn," shrieks her mother.

Sighing, she admits, "The Lady Sif."

Taken aback, Walentyna snarls, "What?"

"She started it," Sigyn defends as though she is still a child. "I was minding my own business, and she just challenged me to a duel out of nowhere!"

Her mother glowers up at her, silently seething. After a moment, she lets out a long, angry breath. "I haven't time for this right now. I must be at the hospital in fifteen minutes."

Since before Sigyn's birth, Walentyna has been a healer at Asgard's military hospital. When Sigyn was young, her mother often took her to work with her because childcare was too expensive for a young woman without a husband. It was there that Sigyn's desire to become a soldier had originated, much to her mother's chagrin. Walentyna would have much preferred that Sigyn become a healer like herself, or a seamstress, or a chef—anything but a soldier, really.

Walentyna strides down the hall to the stairs. As she begins her descent, she calls, "Please refrain from fighting any other deities while I am at work."

"No promises," Sigyn grumbles before stalking the rest of the way to her room, slamming the door, and promptly collapsing face-first onto her bed.

The next few days fly by in a blur for Sigyn. Friends and associates alike recoil in reaction to her haircut, which they follow up with giving her a hard time. The most irritating reactions come from her best friends, Quimby and Pontus.

In the middle of her shift, she waits for them in the commissary for midnight-lunch. Upon seeing her, the two of them collapse into laughing fits, Pontus dropping his tray of food in the process. It is only when Major Hagen walks by and barks at them to pick themselves off the floor that they stop. Of course, once they actually sit down, they made snide remarks until she just gets up and leaves.

Really, she is not sure what she should have expected from the two of them. She and Quimby have been friends practically since birth, their families being neighbors their entire lives. They had become friends with Pontus as soon as Quimby had joined the military, a century after Pontus and two after her. For as long as they have all been friends, they have enjoyed poking fun at one another. After centuries of grisly military service, she finds that playful jesting sometimes takes a turn for cruel taunting. Usually, the three of them relent before anything goes too far, and they apologize if it does. Upon seeing her hair, the worst thing they had said was that it might be easier for her to pull women if she looked like a man, spoken by Quimby. Truthfully, it had been difficult for her to keep a straight face as she had strode from the room, letting out a stifled laugh as soon as she had made it out of the commissary.

Now, serving as a sentry at the Bifrӧst three days later, she refrains from rolling her eyes at the memory. She is at the end of her shift, but no one has come to relieve her, so she stays put on the shining Rainbow Bridge. The sound of Heimdall's sword scraping against metal draws her attention to the golden dais. She watches as the god actuates the Bifrӧst and the far end of the chamber glows with an otherworldly light as her sister's hunting party arrives.

Alarmed, Sigyn returns her eyes forward and stands stock-still, trying her best to blend in with the wall. Nothing good can come of Sif noticing her.

Haldana, the Prince Thor, and the Warriors Three all walk past her without ever sparing her a glance. She is almost in the clear, she thinks, scarcely daring to exhale in relief.

"Well, who do we have here," Sif drawls, coming to stand in front of Sigyn.

Damn it, she thinks.

Sigyn meets Sif's gaze, trying her very best to keep her expression neutral.

Sif has hated her since they were young girls, no doubt due to malicious remarks coming from her stepmother, who hates Sigyn more than anyone. She thinks that Sigyn is an opportunist who will ultimately screw over Haldana. Despite there being no evidence, Sif wholeheartedly believes her. As such, she always makes it her business to treat Sigyn like crap.

Fingering the ends of Sigyn's hair, she taunts, "Enjoying your new trim?"

Sigyn grits her teeth to hold back the expletives threatening to get out. After another few seconds of annoying smirking, Sif continues on her way. Once the warrior's back is turned, Sigyn drops her composed façade to childishly stick out her tongue.

Just as she has straightened her posture and resumed her vigil, another figure leans in close to her. She almost reels back in surprise, eyes wide and breath shallow.

"I saw that," the Prince Loki whispers to her, smiling almost conspiratorially. With that, he strides away, rejoining his party.

For fuck's sake, she thinks, cheeks hot. How many times am I going to embarrass myself in front of him?

Several weeks pass with relatively few problematic occurrences. Sigyn makes enough money to keep up with the rent and her savings timeline, people get used to her new haircut, her mother lets the fight with Sif go, and she does not embarrass herself in front of anymore princes. Essentially, life returns to normal.

At present, she is working the day shift in the prisons. There is an influx of inmates, so the guards have been working to arrange them into cellblocks, which is a bit of a difficult process. The cell walls take a long time to open and close, so guards must keep a close eye on all the prisoners so that none of them make an attempt at escape.

Of course, they still try.

"Get back in line," Sigyn shouts, shoving at a large troll as he tries to dart away from his cellmates. She brandishes her spear when he snarls at her, and the threat is enough to quell him.

Stepping into a cellblock, she directs the prisoners inside. Once all five of them have filed in, she nods at one of the men outside to initiate the generation of the cell wall. In accordance with standard protocol, one soldier has to wait inside the cell until the shield is halfway up to ensure that none of the prisoners make a run for it, so Sigyn waits as the glowing, orange segmented pieces of the wall climb through the air. When the generation of the cell wall is halfway done, she turns and steps forward to leave, but stumbles as her yellow lieutenant's cape catches on something.

She looks back to find the troll stepping on her cape. He and the rest of his cellmates begin to rowdily fidget. She swings her spear to get him off her cape, but the ogre on his left catches it. As Sigyn had not been expecting such a move, he is able to tug it from her grasp.

Shit, the wall is too high for me to get over now, she realizes, adrenalin beginning to course through her system. They are trying to trap me in here with them.

"Bring down the wall," she shouts at her men, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice.

Frantic, one of them darts forward to follow her orders, but the cell wall keeps rising. "I can't," the soldier yells. "It won't stop!"

"You cannot stop the generation once it has started," Captain Kettil relays, having come over to see what the fuss was about. "And there is a five minute delay until we can bring the wall down again."

"Are you fucking kidding me," she shrieks as she unsheathes her sword. The prisoners with whom she is trapped with begin to make a semi-circle around her, gearing up for attack. "Is there no override mechanism?"

"There is," Kettil confesses as the wall locks into place, whirring and shimmering in its finality. "However, every wall in the prison would go down, and we haven't the manpower to handle such a predicament."

Vexed, Sigyn grumbles to herself, wondering, Who the fuck designed this place?

She focuses on the inmates, and knowing they only have five minutes to kill or maim her, she charges forward first to give herself the upper hand. She goes for the ogre first, knocking the spear out of his hands. Once it hits the ground, she creates dozens of copies of it. Unable to discern which spear is real, the prisoners scrabble for the fakes, coming up with nothing as their hands pass through them. She manages to knock out two of them before they give up.

Her newly torn cape lets her down yet again as the troll grabs it and tugs, sweeping her off her feet. She goes down, lying prone on top of her sword so that none of the prisoners can use it against her. They kick and stomp on her, surely taking out all their anger from being locked up. Her golden armor begins to cave in, bruising her flesh. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

She is not sure how long she lies there, absorbing blows. Surely, it is only a few minutes, but the pain disorients her, and it feels like hours.

After a small eternity, she feels someone pulling her up and dragging her out of the cell. She stands, shaking from the pain and adrenalin. She follows Kettil outside of the prisons at his urging, her armor pinching her as she goes.

"You understand," he mutters, standing close to her once they are past the wide entrance to the prisons, "how this is going to look, yes? That this incident occurred because you, a woman, handled the situation poorly?" A bitter twist to her lips, she nods, and he continues. "As such, I cannot give you time off to recuperate."

She nods again, disappointed but not surprised. If I were a man, she thinks, looking at the ground, I would get a month off with pay. Instead, she will have to continue working, battered and bruised as she is.

"However," he says. "You cannot work without armor, and it may take a while for the order to go through, especially if I forget about it for a few days."

Stunned, she looks up at her captain. He has a slight smile on his face, but he quickly wipes it away. "You are on desk duty until further notice," he tells her, turning to head back into the prisons, "and dismissed for the day."

Any relief she may have felt from Kettil's decision is obliterated as she makes her way up the stairs leading from the bowels of the palace, her damaged armor making such movement nearly impossible. She knows she will not be able to make it to the garrison without first removing her armor, so she settles in a vacant army arena to do just that.

The first thing she does is yank off her helmet, which is dented in about a million places. With a scowl, she tosses it onto the ground.

Taking a seat on the steps surrounding the arena, she moves onto her busted-up greaves. They have come apart at the sides, so she wedges her fingers beneath the warped metal and tries to tear them from her shins. Unfortunately, they are so bent out of shape that she cannot pull them off without ripping into her own skin, leaving her to furiously and fruitlessly grapple with them.

Footsteps echo around her, though she disregards them as she focuses on her task. She is far too frustrated to speak civilly with another person at present. When the owner of the footsteps stops at the bottom of the stairs in front of her, she elects to ignore them.

Removing her hands from the greave on her right leg, she attempts to use telekinesis to remove it. Brow furrowed in concentration, she silently urges the golden metal to curve away from her flesh. After about thirty seconds, all she gets for her efforts is a tiny creak as the hardware shifts ever so slightly.

Dismayed with her failure, she goes back to angrily tugging at the greave.

The individual attached to the feet below her clears their throat, and her control snaps.

"You know what, whoever the fuck you are," Sigyn barks, not even bothering to glance up. "I am not in the fucking mood. My entire body hurts, and I am very upset, so kindly fuck off."

"That's not very nice," they drawl, a smug edge to their voice.

Her eyes narrow at the audacity of whomever is disturbing her. "Motherfucker, yo—"

Sigyn's entire body seizes up as she stares up at Loki, God of Mischief, Prince of Asgard, and Odinson.

"Oh," she breathes anxiously as she slides into a kneeling position at the bottom of the stairs. "I-I am so sorry, Your Highness. I didn't realize. I-I—"

"It's quite alright," he assures her, smiling. He offers her a hand.

Taking it, she allows herself to be pulled to her feet. At her full height, she is about six inches shorter than him. From this close, she cannot help but notice that his eyes are an enchanting shade of green.

Wait, her mind screams. Can I look at him in the eyes? Am I allowed to do that? He is addressing me directly, so surely, it's okay? Right?

In the time she spends pondering the ramifications of her involuntary behavior, the prince looks her over, taking in her damaged armor. When she notices where his attention lies, she quickly explains, "Oh, I—my armor—I was trampled—Well, not trampled, per se, more like pummeled. I was pummeled by these ogres because I got trapped in a cell with them because the cells—they are very slow —The system for generating the cell wall is slow, and then you have to wait five minutes, and I am rambling, and I have been rambling for so long, and I no longer remember what it feels like to not be talking, so I am going to shut up—be quiet—now, Your Highness, and I am deeply sorry."

At the end of her impromptu speech, it is all she can do to gulp nervously and direct her gaze to the ground.

Her armor suddenly shifts, causing her to jolt in surprise. She watches in wonderment as the metal in which she is clad takes on the consistency of silk. It slithers to the floor where it solidifies into individual pieces, leaving her wearing only the army's standard issue long-sleeve tee and slacks.

"Wow, that was amazing," she gushes, reaching down to pick up the ruined greave with which she had been struggling. Perplexed, she wonders, "How come it is still damaged?"

"Why would it not be," he coolly replies.

"Oh, well," she flounders, bashful. "I don't know. I confess, I know little of how magic actually works."

The prince raises an eyebrow. "And yet you practice it yourself," he enounces.

"Right." She hangs her head, and the shadows from the sunset obscure her face. "In truth, I am not very good."

"Yes," he agrees, looking down at the scattered pieces of her armor. "That is evident."

Well, he is super harsh, she internally gripes.

"However, if you were given proper instruction, you could improve," he says, reclaiming her attention. Smiling graciously, he continues, "As such, I have decided to lend you my expertise."

Sigyn's eyes widen in explicit shock. An excited smile almost breaks out on her face, but one nagging thought holds it back.

For years, she had searched for someone to teach her magic. The best candidate she had found had been a five-thousand-year-old man who had gone deaf long before she had been born. If Loki is offering to be her instructor, it is practically a dream come true. Still, one has to wonder why a prince would want to spend so much time on a commoner he has hardly met.

Wringing her hands, she asks as much. "If I may ask, Your Highness—not that I am not honored, of course—uh, why?"

He shrugs, smile turning sly. "Let's just say I'd love to see what the Lady Sif would look like with short hair."

At this, Sigyn cannot help but match his grin.