Invitation
By Rey

6. The Surreal Reality

Eyes are on me: invisible, ever-moving, flowing in and out of my mental perception as if they do not care that I am here, that I can perceive them, that I may be quite hostile.

The unseen attention is disconcerting. The dismissive rejection is hurtful.

Apparently, even a race of monsters dismisses me as not a threat, inconsequential.

I have trekked for quite some time along the snow-layered, potholed, uneven path running beside the field of bushes. Even now, the soft, bluish white light bathing everything all round is turning warmer, more creamy, although the temperature is paradoxically dropping to an almost uncomfortable level. Well, the day is about to change into night, apparently.

If "day" is what civilised people usually call "night," that is. But I guess, in this case, the frost giants have no say in the matter. The sun that shines on this planet is supposed to be bad – almost toxic – to them, if they do not protect themselves against it in some way. The reflection of sunlight on snow is also supposed to be blinding to their sensitive eyes.

At least, that is what "The Children of Ýmir: A Compendium says.

The huge, thick book about this very race of monsters that I nicked from and have not returned to Father's highly restricted bookshelf. It is even still in my possession, right now, tucked away in my pocket dimension. Father will be doubly angry with me for this excursion because of that… maybe… probably….

And I will be a truly sorry trespasser if I do not get to meet any of the frost giants – in a more-or-less civilised manner – within the next candlemark, at that. Because I have not forgotten either that the more aggressive predators in this wasteland usually roam near where the vegetation is most abundant.

I need to call out to them, then, and ask for a temporary shelter with any of them, however distasteful and daunting the prospect is.

Maybe, the presence of the book will also help?

So, without further ado, without breaking my stride, and with trepidation saturating every pinprick of my body, I weave additional defensive wards round myself and cloak them to prevent detection. And then I fish the book that started it all from my pocket dimension and wave it around high over my head. "Greetings!" I declare at the same time in my loudest banquet-hall voice. "I'm a scholar! I'm a healer as well! I come in peace! I mean you no harm! Might I seek shelter with you for the night?"

I feel so, so, so foolish.

I feel even more foolish as the candlemark melts by, alongside every thump of my increasingly disconsolate step.

Nobody is answering my call. The passing attention that has brushed by me has vanished entirely into the thin, cold air, in fact.

What am I doing wrong?

"Hello?" I wave the huge, thick book again, making sure that the silvery embossed title on its blue cover is visible, reflected by the emerging sunlight. Bör's beard – it is a book, not a weapon! Are the jötnar so cowardly that they fear a book?

"Please! I–."

My next call dies a strangled death in my throat, and my half-hearted strides halt just as abruptly.

Somebody is suddenly standing before me, only a few paces away. They were completely unseen just a moment ago, and they do not look like a jötun – the jötun that is described and illustrated in the book that is now tucked against my chest, at least. They are just about a head taller than I am, with skin a glowing white under the sunlight, eyes the colour of some Midgardian pale purple-blue-pink flower, and shoulder-length bushy hair as bright blue as the sky on that planet at noon. They are also wearing some kind of footware – an orange pair of minimalistic sandals, in fact – and proper clothing, if indecently cut: a bold-yellow baggy tunic without sleeves and with bright-red patterns on it, and a pair of baggy, bright-pink trousers with piping shawn on mid-thigh.

But somehow, I would prefer a huge, two-legged beast with blue skin, silvery marks, black claws and red glowing eyes to… this… eyesore.

And, as if they could read my mind despite my tight mental shields, they raise one apple-green eyebrow, spread their arms wide and drawl in perfect Allspeak, "See anything you do not like, stranger?"

Only then I realise that I have been gaping like a fool. `Damn.`

"I – what – no! – I mean…," I splutter, blushing, worse when the other eyebrow – this one pale brown – joins its apple-green compatriot high up on the eyesore's fringed brow.

"You mean, you would like to invade our homes single-handedly, Asgardian style, trusting to the power of a book and a fortress' worth of defensive Workings?"

My eyes widen exponentially. So that is why…. But…. So…?

"N-no, that is never my intention. I apologise for any mistakenly… I mean, hostile-seeming… action… or something else… that you may have derived from… well, all of this." I wave helplessly at my own self with my free hand. I am acutely aware that I am but one Asgardian in a land – a planet – hostile to Asgardians. My entry point has been left behind so far away by now, as well, and there is no nearby point of egress that I can use. But to try to sweet-talk my way out of this predicament would see me even weaker than I am, and that I cannot afford.

Oh, damn. I am trapped here. `Talk fast, Loki. This eyesore is far less frightening than your father in a fit of temper.`

But my mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out, and after a while the offended eyesore-who-does-not-look-like-a-jötun huffs out a breath, clearly irritated and impatient.

They take pity on me, though, thankfully, although my pride is well bruised by now because of this last blow.

"Come, you silly child," they snap, one hand now beckoning me to them. "Wait until I tell your mother about this stunt of yours."