Invitation
By Rey

14. The Audience

"Oooooh, they're such a majestic monarch!" Jormúðr croons eagerly and admiringly from their perch beside me, high on the decorative ledge of an alcove inside the audience hall of the palace, opposite the dais where an adult frost giant – rather large, but not as large as many, and lankier than most as if the result of a food shortage – is seated stiffly in a simple throne of stone and ice. We have been hoisted up here by a pair of helpful royal guards, who nonetheless warned us sternly not to disrupt the proceedings with anything we do or say or think, or we are going to be removed from the hall and not allowed in again.

I elbow their side.

I am beginning to regret having let this morbid tale-teller come with me, when I snuck away from the school's procession, once Elder Lýða excused themself to conduct the business which had seen them incidentally come here with us.

Jormúðr is not only a morbid tale-teller, apparently, but also a morbid individual all in all, at least to me.

Because even Father is less grim than Laufey is, and people already consider Father a grim, reserved king, and there is always a grim reason – or many of such – for such a look to be one's engrained bearing instead of just a passing expression.

A grim reason such as unfortunately possessed by Grandfather Njord, King of Vanaheim, who lost practically everything and everyone in Vanaheim's war against Asgard more than two millennia ago: the sovereign rule of his own realm, his only son and heir who has been exiled to Alfheim by Asgard to rule as puppet king there, his eldest daughter who has been spirited away to Asgard to become a political hostage for his good conduct and companion for her younger sister, who has in turn been made the warbride of the then King Bor's youngest son Odin, whose forced wedding to Odin Borson broke her queen-mother's heart so that the latter passed away in grief.

Or like Father, Odin Borson himself, who once admited that Frigga his queen was his cherished close friend first and foremost and he was not really considering marrying her at that time, who nonetheless must wed her under his father's edict, who then lost all his family – his father, mother and three elder brothers – but his warbride and his toddling firstborn son in Asgard's war against Jötunheim, who then must rebuild Asgard nearly right from scratch as the late King Bor had depleted their coffers and ranks of warriors in the previous wars – against the Dark Elves, against Thanos the Mad Titan's forces, against Vanaheim, against Jötunheim….

So, yes, a grim ruler does not automatically make for a majestic one.

It makes for a sad one, in fact.

And I never thought that I would pity the top-most leader of the frost giants.

Now I also see why Eðlenstr urged me to be gentle and understanding to Laufey.

But, unfortunately for me, I cannot explain all this to Jormúðr, so I am stuck listening to them commenting cheerfully under their breath about how the petitioners behave and how Laufey reacts to each of those.

Many of the petitioners are equally – or almost as – grim, a few are pitying, and others try to veil their scorn behind a venere of neutrality or adoration. But none dares approach close to the dais, or fight to make themselves heard first, or argue for better deals for themselves.

At a glance, the behaviour of the petitioners would suggest fear towards Laufey. But there is no indication of anger, arrogance or overflow of power that would suggest Laufey being a tirant leader, like I encountered several times in my travels, although there is also no liveliness to be felt like in a healthy court, even a most formal one like among the Light Elves of Alfheim.

It is a conundrum, indeed, and I spend a long while pondering it.

And then, with a jab of an elbow at my ribs accompanied by a somewhat discrete motioning hand, a giggling Jormúðr attracts my wandering attention to the latest petitioner, who is garbed for once in what an Asgardian might charitably term a full attire, although it is made up of just a series of flimsy, mostly see-through, pearl-hemmed fabrics with different cuts and lengths arranged to drape over one another and highlight their pearl-colour-painted four-braided kin-lines.

"A suiter!" they hoot eagerly, and I hastily throw up a shield against escaping sound to muffle their stupidly loud exclamation… rather belatedly.

And, just so, Laufey's eyes are suddenly, sharply trained on us.

"Lower your voice, you fool!" I hiss under my breath, hunkering low on the ledge, glowering fiercely at the now-pale loudmouth. But it is too late already.

Far too late.

Because Laufey is striding past the petitioners towards this ledge.

"Come!" I yank at Jormúðr's arm, intending to drag him down the ledge, out of the hall and away from Laufey's attention.

But the royal guards prevent us from slinking away.

The doors are even closed and locked in front of our noses.

And the petitioners are being ushered out through a few other, smaller doors.

Jormúðr is even separated from me and ushered away, just as Laufey reaches us.

I scowl, masking my fright as much as I can.

It is hard to maintain such a fierce expression, however, when Laufey kneels before me and so tentatively reaches out a hand to so gently trace my facial features, my hair, the hidden lines on my face and arms and front….

They lay the same hand on my chest, then, coated with a smidge of their power, their seiðrborn presence.

A somehow familiar gesture. An even more familiar power.

Our eyes meet, both wide and disbelieving.

"Elder Lýða told me," they croak out in a whisper, dazed, as if speaking to themself. "I…. Loptr?"

The latter name is spoken in a small whine, as if let out by a small animal in pain. And there is a terrible hope in their glistening eyes, the kind of hope that I would wager would break them into irretrievable pieces should it prove false.

My breath hitches.

Forget them; I am already in pieces.

Because the name, in addition to the gesture and the seiðr, summons something visceral in me – a visceral recognition, part of a soul-deep bond, a very old memory – that I cannot turn away from, cannot deny, cannot help but drink in.

We drown together in each other, in no time at all.

`Loptr,` they whisper softly, reverently, mind-to-mind, when my traitorous mouth lets escape an all-too-similar small, pained whine. `Loptr,` they repeat with incredulous relish.

And then, as if in the act of reaffirmation – or maybe it is – with their seiðr-coated hand still laid on my chest, they whisper aloud, "Loptr Laufey-childe, welcome home."

And I still cannot deny it.

Now, somehow, some part of me does not want to deny it, either.

I am not a visitor. I am home.