A/N: I'm not sure who first started the sire/dame thing. I may have first read it in aylithe's "Jötunheimr" works. Regardless, I did not come up with the convention. Also, the Jötnar use the pronouns zhe/zher. Grammatically, it works the same as she/her or he/him.

Oh, and I forgot to mention before! In case some of you were wondering, Jötnar is the plural of Jötunn. Likewise, Æsir is the plural of Ás, which are the old Norse words for the Asgardian gods. In this fic, I use "Ás" for the race originating in Asgard and "Asgardian" to refer to anyone who lives there. So, a Vanr (the race from Vanaheim) living/raised in Asgard would be an Asgardian but not an Ás.

And now, chapter 3!


"The King vouches for them."

"And The Prince disagrees!"

"I trust Thor's Judgment over his brother's."

"Why are they even here? Why were they ever let on the ship in the first place?"

"Struck some kind of bargain. Traded a few supplies for passage."

"Passage to Midgard? Has the King gone mad? The last thing we need is a group of Giants tearing up the countryside. We'll have enough problems to deal with as is!"

"King Thor is young, but he isn't unintelligent. He surely has a plan to deal with the beasts. We need only trust in him."

"Perhaps."


Thor was being unreasonable.

Loki had spent several hours dogging his brother's footsteps through the ship, explaining in very thorough detail why keeping the Jötnar on board was a poor choice. He'd even arranged for Thor to speak with half a dozen veterans, worried mothers, and one very timid child about their fears and concerns regarding the two blue 'guests' in the hold. Thor brushed all of this aside with an 'Asgard keeps its promises' and a patronizing pat on the shoulder.

"Jötnar can't be trusted, Thor."

"I trust you."

"No you don't!"

And he rightly shouldn't. Loki had felt an overwhelming desire to stab his brother all day.

Loki was exhausted. His less than successful work with the ship's power cells didn't serve to improve his mood, either. Using the Tesseract to recharge the spent cells was, it seemed, far more difficult than he'd anticipated. He'd spent nearly four hours in the engine room incinerating one cell after another after another as the Cube's unruly power ate away at the batteries and his seiðr until he'd finally called it a night.

The door to his quarters slid closed with a dry grind, the chartreuse fey lights he'd set along the ceiling flittering on as he passed beneath them. It had taken six weeks of spellcraft to expand the room into something halfway comfortable, folding space into the higher dimensions, tricking reality into giving him just a few more feet. The room was still cramped, and it still had all the charm of a dusty storage closet. But it was private. And it was just large enough to let go.

He'd been putting it off. Ever since the Giants had boarded he'd had an illogical fear of someone walking in on him or of getting himself stuck or some other improbability. But it had been eight days and the strain was wearing on him. He knew he'd lose control come the ninth.

Loki sighed and with his next breath his form shifted, growing taller, growing colder. The chill of his quarters was now a pleasant warmth and the subtle fey light now had the soft glow afternoon sun through a spring canopy. Even the hard metals of the walls and floor didn't feel so uninviting to this thicker skin.

It was still cramped, though.

Loki settled onto the mattress he'd dragged to the floor some weeks back. The bed, inset into the cabin walls, had been too small even when he'd been Ás. Even with dimensional stretching it would never accommodate his Jötunn height. Instead, he'd converted it into a shelf, occasionally using it as a desk for paperwork and the like.

His skin didn't look quite so muddy under the fey lights.

Loki sighed again, stripping out of his leathers, the loose cotton of his underclothes a relief in the warmth of his rooms. He hated doing this, needing to do this. If he'd left well enough alone, hadn't tampered with Odin's little spell-pin, then he'd have been able to retain his Às skin indefinitely. But curiosity had gotten the better of him and he still hadn't recovered from the years of enforced shapeshifting. Maintaining his Às form was draining. It itched and pulled and he just…

He closed his eyes and lay down, arms at his sides, rough palms held away from the ridged skin of his body.

His magic needed the rest. He could deal with it until morning.


Æsir.

With all the stories Juri had heard of the Æsir zhe expected demons. Snarling fangs, and burning hands. But these, they could almost be mistaken for children. They even wore their hair long! Oma said every Às was trained for battle, but that was hard to believe when they wore braids and buns like craftsmen and farmers.

And they were so little! Juri wasn't fully grown, but even still zhe towered over even the tallest Às!

Juri knew it would be a terrible idea, but zhe desperately wanted to pat one on the head.

"We are to stay here," Zher dame had said, dragging zher from the bay doors and the sight of Æsir toiling amongst the cargo. Oma was desperately afraid. Zhe remembered the Midgard Wars, remembered Asgard's burning blades and swarming hordes. "We stay in these rooms, away from the Æsir. Do not speak to them, do not look on them, and give them no reason to look on you. We stay quiet and maybe we survive."

But surely, surely, they weren't all bad. The one with the face markings, Brunnhilde, she'd been friendly. She'd sparred with words and was generous with smiles as she'd settled them into their new accommodations. She'd even spoken of Jötnar from the past, ones she'd called friends. If she could be kind, why couldn't others?

"An Às's word is like candle ice, pretty and worthless."

Oma planned to sneak off board the next time they made port. Oma figured if they left before they reached Midgard the Æsir wouldn't be bothered to track them down. Zhe was convinced the Æsir would have their heads before they let any Jötnar step foot on the Mortal Realm.

But where would they go? Oma didn't know.

"Somewhere else. Someplace else."

Oma was scared. Zher thoughts were still caught in the war. But the war was centuries ago! Things had changed. They must have.

The Æsir had lost their home, too.

Brunnhilde said that Loki (for that was Loptr's true name) was indeed Jötunn, claimed by Odin King as son and Prince of Asgard. Oma didn't believe it, thought it another dirty Às lie, but Juri believed. Loki spoke like an Às, and zhe had been dressed like Juri's Omama, but zhe'd moved like a Jötunn, smiled like one.

And zhe was a shifter! Not just a shifter, but a seiðrmaster! Brunnhilde had told them this, too, told them Loki was a sorcerer capable of conjuring images and hidden blades, that he was versed in all of Asgard's magics, trained as a battlemage prince.

And if the Æsir could accept a Jötunn as their prince, surely things had changed!

Oma insisted they be cautious. Well, Juri could be cautious.

Zhe waited until Zher dame slept. It took some days, as Oma was too unnerved to sleep deeply and would wake at the slightest sound (and Hulk was not a quiet neighbor). But Juri waited, knowing even Zher dame couldn't remain awake forever.

On the eighth night, as the lights throughout the ship dimmed, Juri realized zher dame had fallen into a doze in the corner of their room. (Their room was truly a corner of the main cargo bay, carved from Hulk's quarters with walls of crates and hanging plastic sheets. It was cramped, but more private than the room they shared with the Orcanoids on Vertex.)

"Oma?" Juri called quietly. Zhe crawled up to zher dame's side to tap gently on the ridges of Oma's face, just below zher eyes. "Oma, are you awake?"

Zher dame did not stir, and Juri could hear light snoring beneath the constant thrum of the ship's engines.

A smile found its way across zher face as zhe slipped between the hanging sheets and into the bay beyond. Broken containers, twisted iron rods, and torn packing material littered Hulk's abode. Juri stepped cautiously through the mess, peering over the mounds of trash. Hulk lounged in a nest of found things, clutching a barrel like a stitched toy. He slept.

Hulk was a curious man. Exceedingly strong but not terribly bright. Juri had thought him a Hill Giant, at first, but Oma had huffed a negative.

"Hill Giants are not green themselves. They only look so from the moss in their craggy skin."

Juri had convinced Hulk to play a few card games with Zher, but the childish being threw a tantrum whenever he lost. And he usually lost.

Juri made zher way to the main entrance of the bay which lead to the loading bay. This held a great deal of supplies the Æsir hadn't yet found use for. Juri pressed close to the door jam, listening into the echoing hold. No voices, no sounds of little Æsir steps.

Good. There was one small thing zhe needed before adventuring on: a change of clothes.

Oma said there were ways of changing one's garb with one's form, but Oma had never managed it zherself. Oma's Oma had, apparently. But Omama had fallen before Juri was old enough to learn. Juri could remember, though, Omama shifting forms in the light of the campfire, growing fur and claws for the hunt.

That was before the hreindyr had all died off.

Juri crept between crates and palettes until zhe found the bound bundles of cloth. Zhe was careful opening them, careful not to tear the packaging. Zhe didn't want the theft to be noticed.

"Let's see, let's see…"

A gown would be easiest. Flowy and loose, zhe wouldn't have to worry about an exact fit. Juri selected one with a nice silver trim and blue cloth, like a clear morning sky, and held it up to zher chest.

It was so tiny!

Now to shift. Gowns were for females, were they not? Brunnhilde had worn britches, but she'd possessed a bossem as a nursing dame would, so Juri felt confident the Ás was indeed a woman.

Juri closed zher eyes, clutching the pretty cloth and thinking on Brunnhilde, her flowing hair, her curving hips, her bright eyes. Juri felt zher bones begin to shift and shrink, zher skin to soften and the ridges of zher brow to smooth. It was curious, and uncertain, but as zhe focused, zher magic reached out, seeking out the lifeforms nearby, learning the essence of an Ás. And as zher magic came to know the form, the changes came faster, with confidence, and Juri all but fell into this new skin.

She opened her eyes.

The bay was dark. Much darker than before, her new eyes designed for the bright vistas of Asgard instead of the dim of Jötunheim. Juri giggled, then giggled some more at the sound of her voice. It was so light! Like the tinkling of ice falling in the woods. She held out an arm and marveled at the light tan tones and smooth skin, her laylines hidden beneath the flesh.

Oh! Oma would be so mad!

Juri quickly dressed (for a loose definition of quick. The new clothes were confusing) and stashed her old kilt beneath some pallets. The dress was loose in the chest, but otherwise seemed fine. It flowed in lovely waves as she skipped across the hull and to the hallways beyond. Somewhere in these twisting corridors there was an elevator.

Ah! There! Next to the sixth storage closet Korg had pointed out. She dashed up to its control panel and slapped her hand against the digital display. The elevator gave a loud 'ker-chunk,' then a grinding hum as the mechanism ground to life. Juri hopped from foot to foot as she waited for the doors to chime open.

Oh, it was freezing! And it was so strange being unable to draw warmth to herself. Her toes felt as if they would fall off.

Scrambling into the lift, she pressed a button at random. The doors closed, the elevator jerked, and the pit of her stomach swooped with the movement of the platform. Lights fell by as she rose, illuminating the elevator through the crack in the door, until a tinny ding announced the end. The doors slid open with a squeak and she stepped out into the bright halls of the upper deck.

Voices. Æsir voices! Down the way and to her right. She stepped lightly, nerves flickering in her belly.

Would they realize she didn't belong? What if she'd botched her transformation?

Juri looked again at her hands. They seemed right to her. A panel in the wall had a bit of shine to it, and Juri bent to gaze at her reflection. It was distorted by the metal, but she looked roughly right. A little scrawnier than Brunnhilde, and her braided hair had more red to it than the Æsir woman. But that was all right, wasn't it? Oma had said Æsir came in an assortment of tans and browns.

"I still wish we could have gone aboard." The voices rounded the corner, two Æsir strolling down the way. They were male. (She thought they were male.) One fair skinned and fair haired, the other with fiery hair and speckles across his nose.

Juri straightened, clasping her hands before her.

Was this all right? Was there some way she was supposed to great them? Oh! They were taller than her, how strange!

"You all right?" the red one asked, slowing as they came near.

"Yes! Yes. Um. Yes, I am fine." She laughed, the nervous feeling in her chest bubbling to the surface.

They stared at her, brows pinched.

Had she done something wrong already?

"Are you sure? You don't have any shoes."

Shoes? Was that problem? Was it rude to go without?

"I'm sorry," she said, quickly. "I lost them."

The two Æsir glanced at one another, worry clear on their faces. So strange. They had no reservation, letting their emotions dance across their features even in the presence of a stranger.

The fair one spoke next, asking, "do you have family on board? Are you lost?"

Technically, yes, her dame slept in the holds below, but Juri wasn't about to say so. But that the Æsir men would ask meant there were those aboard who did not have family. Claiming she was an orphan would be an easier lie than claiming her family were somewhere about the ship.

"I am on my own," Juri said, gazing at her feet. If she looked sad enough, maybe the Æsir wouldn't ask too many questions. It felt wrong to display emotions so dramatically, but it seemed to be normal for the Æsir. "And I am a bit turned around."

"Hey, it's alright," the red one said, placing a hand between her shoulders and steering her to walk between them. "Have you had dinner? We're on the way to the dinning hall."

She hadn't, and said as much. The men lead her to a large hall with tall ceilings, flooded with soft golden light. It wasn't crowded, but then, it was a bit late in the evening. But even half empty the voices of those gathered rang out over empty bowls and half filled cups. The men showed her to the front of the room where a couple older women dished her a bowl of soup. It was hot, uncomfortably so, and she had to hold the bowl by its lip with the tips of her fingers. It smelled strange and, Juri was sure, would have been unappetizing where she still Jötunn. But now, the strange vegitables smelled absolutely delectable.

Her guides left her, then, finding their own companions in the crowd. Juri was left standing at the edge, soup held before her, as she studied the gathered people.

They shouted and jostled each other, slapping backs and spilling drink. They laughed with even as they punched each other in the arms and grabbed a headlock.

They didn't seem so small and cute now.

Perhaps she should have been a male. The men seemed to be bigger, both in size and width. But then, she was a youth still. She'd have likely been smaller than most regardless. And the room was so loud! There were only, maybe, a hundred or so, but their chatter filled the place as if they were a thousand. Laughing, singing, talking one over the other until their words were shouts.

"And I took a great leap, landing on the beast's back, driving my spear through its lungs!" A man on Juri's left shouted, miming the action with an empty cup. "It bucked and howled but I kept my grip until it fell, face first, into the bloody dirt!"

"Yeah, and my Aunt's a horse," another man drawled.

"No, it is true!" The first insisted. "Look! I've still got the frost scars from where it grabbed me." The man pulled back his sleeve, exposing skin discolored from an old wound.

Juri edged away.

She passed another group recounting a war on Vanaheim. Something recent that involved various 'rebals and bandits.' Yet another group was discussing the best blades for skinning boars. Another sung a song about the slaying of the Giant Þjazi.

The hall was feeling rather too warm, now.

She should go back. She should leave. Her dame was right, the Æsir were a bloodthirsty lot and if they found her out...

Juri picked her way along the edge of the crowd, doing her best not to meet their eyes. Mostly they ignored her, talking and laughing with each other where they sat on mats or improvised stools. Juri had to jump out of the way of one man who gestured wildly as she passed, regaling his friends with some great tale.

So open and loud.

"Hey! Where're your shoes?!"

Juri spun, soup sloshing over her hands. The boy who'd hailed her laughed as she cursed quietly.

Juri flicked the broth from her fingers as she answered. "I lost them."

"How'd you lose your shoes?" the boy asked, his smile clearly at her expense. He was small, perhaps half the size of an adult, and his hair was yellow and messy.

"If I knew how I lost them I'd be able to find them."

"Don't be rude, Gullr," an older girl said, her straight dark hair falling past her shoulders.

"I was just asking, Fjulla," the boy, Gullr, said.

There were a number of children and youths arranged in several loose circles at the edge of the hall. Fjulla and Gullr played with roughly carved little figures on a perforated board, the pieces standing proudly in their little holes.

The two youths were staring at her. She had to say something.

"What are you playing?"

Fjulla answered, "Tafl. Do you want to join?"

"I'm taking winner," another boy said. His voice was deep, like an adult's, but his limbs were a lanky youth's. "You can go after."

She glanced at the door, still some fifty feet away, then to the children. Gullr smiled a gap toothed grin.

"All right…"

Tafl, she learned, was a game of strategy. Being unfamiliar, Juri lost most of her matches. But Fjulla and her brother, Ragnar, were patient and assured Juri she only needed more practice. It was frustrating, but Juri didn't want to give up. It had been years since she'd played with anyone around her own age. Gullr was certainly younger, but the two siblings seemed to be her age.

The children were even louder than the adults, and the youngest of them ran throughout the hall, knocking over mugs or leaping over outstretched legs.

"I like your hair!" Gullr announced during one of Fjulla and Ragnar's matches. He tugged one of her braids. "Can you do mine like that?"

"Yours is a bit short," she laughed, ruffling his hair. It was very thin and light.

"It's not that short! Can't you do a small one?"

"I don't know. Do you think you can sit still for it?"

He could. Mostly.

"Where are you from?" Fjulla asked, hopping her black game piece across the board.

"Oh, um, I grew up in the woods," Juri said, starting on another tiny braid.

(Asgard had woods, right? Yes, of course.)

"Whereabouts?"

"Nowhere special. What about you?"

"Farm," Ragnar said, placing one of his pieces to sandwich his sister's between two of his own. Fjulla scowled as he snatched hers from the board.

"We were in Asgard for school," Fjulla said. "We're from Vanaheim, originally. But our mother wanted us to have an Asgardian education."

"Is she here, too?"

Fjulla and her brother's faces went blank.

"We don't got nobody here," Gullr said. "That's why Matron Marta's taking care of us."

"Oh," Juri stuttered. "Sorry."

"Your family made it on board, then?" Ragnar asked, not looking up from his game. It wasn't his turn.

"Um, yes. My dame- um, my mother. She is sleeping right now."

Ragnar nodded. "You're lucky."

"Yeah…" She tied off Gullr's braid and started another. She sought for something to fill the sudden silence. "What was your school like?"

"Oh!" Fjulla said, her face brightening. "It was wonderful! It had the biggest library I'd ever seen!"

The girl went on about her studies, much to Ragnar and Gullr's annoyance, but Juri enjoyed hearing it. She'd never been in a room designed just for classes. It seemed an odd concept, staying inside and reading about things instead of going out and doing them. But then, Juri had only seen a handful of books throughout her life. Most of Jotunheim's libraries were guarded, the scrolls too valuable to risk.

She wondered if Midgard had libraries. Fjulla hoped so.

It wasn't long, though, before the children were called to bed. Gullr complained loudly as an older matron rounded them all up, insisting they bring their dishes to the front before filing out of the hall.

Fjulla held back as Juri placed her bowl with the other used eating ware.

"Do you want to play again tomorrow?" She asked.

Juri blinked, surprised. She hadn't thought about coming back. She'd been ready to flee the hall not too long ago, to hide again in the bay. The older Æsir were still loud, still singing songs of battle. But Fjulla looked so hopeful, and it had been so long since she'd had anyone to talk to besides her dame. Her dame, who would be in a rage if zhe ever found out.

"I don't know if I'll be able to come tomorrow." Juri would only be able to leave the lower floors if Oma remained unaware. She'd have to hope her dame would soon sleep deeply again. "But if I can, I will."

"Okay," Fjulla smiled, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "We're usually by the west wall. You'll see us."

Juri returned the girl's smile as the group left. With a skip in her step, she made for the lower holds.

This had been an excellent idea!