"It's been almost three weeks and the King hasn't done anything about those things in the hold."

"We should be patient. Thor has proven himself a strategic man. He would not sit idle whilst danger stalks our halls."

"And yet he does!"

"Patience-"

"What is his plan, then? Hmm? It seems to me he is making a hobby collecting oversized beasts."

"He… I am sure he has reason."

"The Prince seems less sure. I've heard him speaking with some of the veterans of Midgard. He was quite adamant the creatures must go."

"I would trust Thor over his brother any day."

"I would too, on most days. But these are not 'most days.'"


It wasn't working!

Loki dropped the Tesseract with a frustrated shout, letting it fall back into his intra-dimensional pocket. He had tried to weave the cube's energy into the power cells, delicately and with precision, but it was like trying to water a violet with a tsunami. Each time he lost his grip on the raging energy, frying the cell.

The chemical stench of the burnt husks ate at the back of his throat.

He'd tried lowering the cube's output, moderating its frequency, or using a conductive medium between it and the batteries, but nothing worked.

They had a week's worth of fuel left. No one but Loki knew.

He raked his hands through his hair, hissing when the strands caught in the healing skin of his palms.

Blast it all!

It was an energy source! Even the mortals had used it as such, creating weapons and vehicles. Bloody mortals! And here Loki was— a blasted god!— unable to recharge one damn battery!

Loki aimed a kick at one of the molten fusion cells but thought better of it, sliding to the floor instead. The engine room was uncomfortably hot, even as an Às, the great machines pumping and steaming as they sent power throughout the ship. Few came down here, and only for as long as necessary to change the cells or check things were running as they should. Loki wasn't entirely sure the machines were supposed to be steaming, but the Sakaaran engineers hadn't mentioned it yet.

He let his head thunk against the wall, sheet metal thrumming low with the impact, his eyes drawn to the cell. It smoldered on his improvised ritual mat, sparks of of power burying themselves into the burlap. He'd have to dispel the built up energy in the mat soon.

Loki's head ached.

He needed something to regulate the Tesseract's output. He couldn't control the artifact and focus on the fission process of the cells at the same time. The thing ate away at him, pulling at his flesh and seiðr with every second he held it until he lost concentration and the bloody thing ripped its way into the battery and burned it from the inside out. Explosively.

If Loki couldn't find a solution, and soon, Thor would have his head. And wouldn't that be ironic? His brother bending over backwards to protect two Jötnar only to bring the hammer of vengeance down on Loki himself.

Oh, how did he always get himself into these absurd situations? Why couldn't his plans turn out well, just for once? Why did they always fall apart around his ears, sending the roof down atop him?

He needed help. He needed someone versed in seiðr to help him wrangle the Tesseract. More specifically, he needed someone versed in seiðr who wouldn't immediately run off to Thor to tell him of Loki's misdeeds. Everyone in Asgard knew of his attempt to conquer Midgard with The Tesseract, and no one would trust him to keep it safe. Thor would rip it away and put it somewhere to be guarded day and night by a retinue of musclebound guards. Probably in a closet or something where it would sit and glow and send its energies out in a wave for anyone who might be listening.

For a very specific someone who was listening.

Loki was the only one who could keep it hidden, hidden from Heimdall, hidden from… others.

He wished his mother were here, she would be able to aid him in this. She'd even keep quiet about his methods, if he asked. Or even Odin! If Odin where here he could keep it hidden. And if he couldn't, at least then Loki would have someone to blame if everything went to shit!

But he didn't have Odin. Or mother.

No, Loki was on his own. As always.

Oh, he was so screwed.


Zher dame was sleeping. Juri had brewed the both of them some red lichen tea, a special treat they indulged in now and then. Their pouch of the moss was growing light, but Juri had convinced zher dame that they deserved a bit of relaxation after three weeks of constant stress.

And now zher dame was sleeping.

Juri crept to the loosened panel at the edge of their quarters, prying it from the wall with slow and deliberate movements, careful to keep it from clattering to the floor. Wedged in the ductwork beyond was a wrapped package, the blue dress Juri wore to mingle with the Æsir. Zhe had only managed to sneak off a couple times, as Oma still slept fitfully and infrequently. But in those rare instances when Oma did sleep, and sleep deeply, Juri slipped away to the floors above.

Zhe closed zher eyes and focused on the small bones and thin skin of zher Às form, sliding into it with more ease than ever. It was becoming almost second nature, like a well practiced dance. Juri shimmied out of her Jötunn kilts and into her Às dress, hiding the old clothes in the ducks. With one last glance at her snoring dame, she ducked under their room's hangings and into the bay beyond. Hulk was somewhere passed the crates and barrels. She kept an ear cocked for his heavy movements as she tiptoed to the doors. Shuffling and grumbling echoed from the far end of the bay, but no sight of green skin or mussy hair.

With a grin, Juri reached the bay's doors, then—

"Hey there, Kiddo. What're you doing down here?"

Juri tripped and nearly landed face first into Brunnhilde's chest, but the Às woman caught her by the shoulders and returned her to her feet.

"Hey, where are your shoes?" Brunnhilde asked.

"I- I don't-"

"Wait…" The woman looked Juri over, from foot to face. She took Juri by the jaw, turning her head this way and that in an uncompromising grip, then laughed. "Hey! Wow, is that you? Juri?"

She nodded against Brunnhild's grip, shoulders slumping.

"Haha! You're a shapeshifter?" Brunnhilde let go of Juri's face to take a step back and look over the change.

"I- Yes. Yes, I just wanted to see what it was like," she stuttered, holding her arms close about her middle, as if doing so could hide the transformation. "Um, my dame is sleeping. We should be quiet..."

Brunnhilde was smirking at her, her eyes raking across Juri's new form. Seeing Brunnhilde like this, through Às eyes, it was quite apparent Juri's form was lackluster in comparison. She was shorter than the Às, and her skin wasn't nearly as lovely a brown. Maybe with practice she could edge a little closer to Brunnhilde's look, but she'd never get it quite like that.

Brunnhilde nodded, adjusting a satchel she had slung over one shoulder, the sound of bottles clinking within. "So, you just going for a walk around the cargo bays?" The way she said it made it clear Brunnhilde knew that wasn't the case.

"Well, no." Brunnhilde was suspicious. Juri would have to think of something, something bad enough to warrant sneaking off but not so bad as sneaking to the upper levels.

Brunnhilde raised an eyebrow, waiting. Juri's gaze was drawn to the Às' satchel. Brunnhilde often came down to drink with Hulk, the two of them singing loud and tuneless songs long into the night.

"I found a bottle of Setchen Whiskey in one of the broom closets," Juri blurted, the lie spilling out. "I wanted to know what it would be like, drinking it in this form. You won't tell my dame, will you?" Juri whispered, darting a glance towards the sheets hiding her sleeping oma. "Zhe doesn't like me taking this form. But the bottle's too small to do anything when I'm Jotun."

"Uh-huh," Brunnhilde snorted, shaking her head with a grin. "Well, far be it from me to ruin your fun. And, hey, when you're done, feel free to join me and Hulk. He likes you."

"Oh! Oh, thank you. Um..."

"Just an open invite," she reassured, waving Juri's hesitation away. She turned towards the sounds of Hulk's shuffling. "Have fun! Don't get sick!"

"Right. Thanks. And you too," Juri nodded to Brunnhilde's retreating back before darting away.

She couldn't believe that worked! Juri wouldn't stay away long, she didn't want to arouse Brunnhilde's suspicion, but she'd have enough time for at least a couple games of taffle up above.


Dinner was just winding down as she arrived. Rations were the nutra-bars Juri and her dame had provided, along with a small helping of dried fruit. The fruit was odd, almost too sweet, but after a few bites she found herself growing used to the flavor. They didn't have anything so overwhelmingly sweet on Jötunheim.

Juri found Fjulla with the other youths, braiding strips of cloth into a dainty belt. Weaving was a common hobby amongst the female population of Asgard, and Fjulla had been teaching Juri some new designs. Juri, in turn, had shown her how to braid a tassel in the way her omama (or grandmother, as the Æsir would say) had done. Juri didn't mention that the style was unique to the Fjarðardalur clan, only that it was a family method.

Juri slid down to sit beside Fjulla, waiting for the other girl to notice. Absorbed as she was with her braiding, she remained entirely unaware of Juri's presence. Juri made a game of it, inching closer to Fjulla, slowly, until she sat with her nose nearly touching the other girl's ear. It was only when her breath started to tickle Fjulla's neck that she finally looked up with a start.

"Juri!"

They both laughed and Juri scooted back to a more polite distance.

"How is your braiding?" Juri asked.

"It's good, I think. Would you take a look?"

Juri took the tail of the braid in her hand, admiring the way the rough materials danced to Fjulla's will.

"You incorporated my grandmother's tassels with your mother's knotwork!"

"Yes! You don't mind, do you?"

"No! Of course not! I think it's wonderful." And she did. The geometric Às designs flowed gracefully into her clan's looser threadwork. Juri wondered if her Omama would feel the same.

"My bar looks funny," Gullr, the little blond boy who could never sit still, dropped his nutri-bar with a scowl.

"Just eat it." Ragnar spoke up from where he sat against the wall. He didn't bother to look up from his book.

"No. Oh!" Gullr jumped to his feet as he caught sight of someone across the hall. "Oh! Oh! It's Prince Loki! Look!" He pointed.

Indeed, the prince was making his way to the serving station, head held high and gaze straight ahead. It was strange seeing him as an Às. While he wasn't large by Às standards, he certainly wasn't short. It was quite different from his natural shape, stunted as it was. Juri wondered if he needed to force himself to gain those extra inches in this shape or if it was simply the form his magic fell into.

"Do you think he'll tell us a story?" Gullr didn't ask anyone in particular, still watching the prince cross the hall.

"He looks angry," Juri said. And he did. His brows tight and his jaw tense.

"No he doesn't!" Gullr said.

"You shouldn't bother the prince," Ragnar said. "He's probably busy."

"It's not bothering him. He likes telling stories."

"Ask Matron Marta. She'll tell you to leave him alone."

Gullr puffed out his cheeks but did just that, bounding over the other children to the severe looking Matron, the one in charge of all the ship's orphans. Most of the children in this corner of the hall were without family. The children who still had theirs seemed to avoid those who didn't. Juri had asked once why. Ragnar thought they were afraid of them, as if dead parents was something you could catch. Fjulla was kinder, thinking they may just not know what to say.

Gullr returned from the Matron with a deep frown, flopping to the floor with his arms crossed.

"What'd she say?" Ragnar drawled, turning another page.

"To wait 'till he's done eating."

"How dreadful."

"Does he often tell you stories?" Juri asked.

"Sometimes," Fjulla said, picking at a loose thread in her braiding. "I guess he used to perform epics at feasts in the palace. We never got to go to those, though."

"He tells the best stories!" Gullr announced, his pouting forgotten. "He uses magic to make it come to life! Like this!" Gullr jumped back to his feet, miming some great battle. His whooshing sound effects were accompanied with a fine spray of spittle.

"Really?" Juri asked absently, wiping spray from her forehead. Her dame used to make ice sculptures when telling Juri bedtime stories, little worgs and Jötunn warriors, but they never moved. Once, as the winter gave way to the light snows of spring, a caravan came through in time for the Equinox Festival. One of the performers had used the flames of the great bonfire to create fleeting pictures of dancers and monsters and long dead heroes. Juri had tried to do the same that night and had burnt her fingers quite thoroughly.

Gullr was in the throws of an epic fight for his life against an invisible beast, but Fjulla picked up where he left off.

"The Prince is a very skilled seiðrmaster. Probably the best in Asgard. When he weaves illusions you can hardly tell they're not real, they're so vivid and lifelike."

Ragnar made kissy sounds from behind his book.

Fjulla turned to slap her brother's leg. "They are!"

"Tell Juri about his voice. How sonorous it is."

"Shut up!" Fjulla slapped him more vigorously, her cheeks red. Ragnar fended her off with a foot, smacking his lips in a sloppy imitation of kissing.

Juri laughed, watching the two siblings wrestle. It ended with Fjulla on top of her brother, whacking his covered head as he chuckled into his arms. When she slid off of him, with one last smack, Juri asked, "So you like him? You don't mind that he's Jötunn?"

Juri hadn't spent much time amoung the Æsir, but even still had heard a few less than kind things said about her people. And about her, specifically. She'd overheard at least one man who wanted to 'throw the two Jötunn stowaways out an airlock.'

Fjulla paused, glancing at Juri from lowered eyes, then turned to fixing her mussed hair. Ragnar's expression, too, had changed, looking uncomfortable.

"Well," Fjulla said, "he's not really Jötunn."

"What do you mean?" Juri asked. Was her dame right, that his blue skin had been a trick?

"Well, I mean, he was born a Jötunn, but that doesn't matter. He's Às where it counts." Fjulla was playing with her hands, her cheeks growing redder.

"Where it counts?"

"Yeah, you know. In heart and mind. He's smart and brave and he saved us when Asgard…" Fjulla's words grew tight. She took a breath and finished, "he saved us. He's Às in his heart."

"So," Juri said, chest tight. "He's not Jötunn because he's smart and brave."

"Look," said Ragnar, his voice steady and low. "Loki is still our prince, Jötunn or not. If you have a problem with that, I think you should keep it to yourself."

"That's- That's not-" Juri's voice snagged in her throat. She hadn't known Fjulla and Ragnar long, but in that time they'd been kind and funny and friendly. That they thought so little of her people… Juri knew tensions between the Jötnar and Æsir were high, but it still hurt. "That's not what I meant. I meant, you can be Jötunn and be smart and brave. Æsir don't have a monopoly on good traits, you know."

"Well, yes. Of course some are," Fjulla said, gesturing to where Loki was taking his meal.

"Most are!"

The siblings didn't know how to respond to that, staring at Juri in confusion.

"I just…" She shouldn't have lost her temper, she couldn't give herself away. What could she say to get her point across without revealing her ruse? "My Om—my mother, she traveled a lot when I was young. We met some Jötnar, here and there, and they aren't stupid or cowards. They're people, just like you. They're… I don't know. I just don't like how Æsir are always making them out like they're animals."

Fjulla was quiet for a time. "Sorry." Then, "have you really met a Frost Giant?"

"No she hasn't," Ragnar said, slouching against the wall.

"I have," Juri said, voice hard.

"What are they like?" Fjulla asked.

"They're… Uh, well, big."

Ragnar snorted. Juri glared at the boy. She continued with more conviction.

"Their warriors shave their heads and bind their horns to grow low against their skulls so there's nothing to grab in a fight. And their food is purer. You never put meat in with vegetables or mix two sorts of meat. Doing so is unclean."

"How is it unclean?" Ragnar asked. He still looked unconvinced, but was listening.

"Well, because meat goes bad much faster than vegetables, doesn't it? And fish goes bad faster than meat. If you mix them then one half of the dish might go bad before you finish."

"Well, you shouldn't leave food lying around to go bad."

"They don't leave it 'lying around!' They just store it separately."

"Are they scary?" Fjulla asked.

"No. I mean…" Juri gave the question a bit of thought. She supposed a Jötunn would be scary to someone half their height. "A bit intimidating. But it's not that bad."

"Guys!" Gullr bounded into their circle, scattering Fjulla's pile of cloth scraps. "He said yes! But Marta says we gotta get ready for bed first! Come on, come on!"

He hopped over to the next group of children with his announcement, pulling the smaller kids to their feet as he went.

"Are you going to come too?" Fjulla asked as she gathered up her project. She grinned as she added, "maybe Prince Loki will tell a Frost Giant story."

"Oh, I'm not sure. I don't want my mother to worry…"

"You don't have to stay for the whole thing."

Juri chewed her lip. She really couldn't stay long. There was no telling when her dame would wake. And she felt a bit weird right now, even if Fjulla had apologized. (She hadn't really understood why she was apologizing, Juri knew.) But she was curious. Curious how Prince Loki managed to win the hearts of the Æsir, and curious about his seiðr. It sounded like his methods were quite different from anything she'd seen on Jötunheim. Maybe she could learn a thing or two.

"All right. For a bit."

Fjulla smiled.


Loki was tired and frustrated and hungry. The evening's rations were meant for someone who'd been lounging about the ship all day, not a seiðrmastr who'd spent the last three hours wrestling with an unruly artifact of unlimited power. He wanted to go to bed.

Or punch something.

The little boy had been so earnest, though. And it had been a while since Loki had paid the children's hall a visit. It could be nice to spend time on silly tales instead of draining chores.

When he arrived, the children had already arranged themselves in a semi-circle about his usual seat. The converted cargo bay was a little warmer now than it had been last month. The plastic sheets and packing supplies had been traded in for proper bedding, courtesy of yours truly. The lights shown a bit more brightly, too, and the heating vents were a bit more generous in their warmth. (Thor had announced they could warm the ship more fully now that they had fuel to spare. Loki had nearly bit his tongue off at that.)

He took his place upon a short crate, a smile on his face as the children's attention fell to him.

"All right, what are we in the mood for tonight?"

"Something with dragons!" A young voice called out.

"No! A love story!" Another shouted.

"Tell the one about the fisherman!"

A dozen voices filled the bay as Loki tapped his chin in thought. Settling on a tale, he raised his hands for quiet. "All right, all right! Have any of you heard of the loyal hound and his missing master?" Murmurs of 'no' met his ears.

And so he began.


Fjulla had spoken true, his magic was mesmerizing. In his tale a small worg, a hound, journeyed from land to land in search of his Às companion, traveling through woods and deserts, across seas and stars, and as Prince Loki told his tale the people and places came to life, glowing gently in miniature above their heads. The hound bounded through the room, sometimes dipping low to wend between heads and shoulders before springing back into the air.

And Fjulla was right, he did have a nice voice.

It was hard to pull her gaze away from the light and spectacle, but Juri made a point to watch the mage now and then. She sat towards the back, with the older children, but she could just make out the slight flicks of his fingers and twists of his wrists, directing the puppets in their dance. His movements were subtle and infrequent. It seemed his hands should be a constant blur, giving commands to the illusions twirling about the bay. But his conjured creatures seemed able to act on their own, only needing a slight nudge here and there when the story took a turn.

Was he controlling them some other way?

Juri glanced to her own hands. She'd never tried this sort of magic. Was it at all like Thermoturgy? The illusions were made of light and what better way to create light than through fire?

The hound sniff through the hair of a young girl near the front. She giggled, turning this way and that to catch sight of the little beast.

No. It wasn't fire. So what was it?

Juri watched the prince's hands, paying special attention when he conjured a new image, mimicking the movements.


The tale was coming to a close, the brave hound digging through an avalanche to rescue his clumsy master, when a glimmer caught Loki's eye. He didn't pause in his story but he scanned the crowd for the light's source.

A girl he didn't recognize sat in the back, flicking her hands in a clumsy attempt at conjuring. Her form was stiff and her movements unpracticed, but a spark of light lit up her fingers before fizzling out.

Who was that?

" 'Oh thank you!' the master said, kissing the hound full on the snout!" Loki recited. A chorus of 'eww's' rose from the gathered children as the illusion gave the hound a wet smooch. " 'From now on, you'll have steak and mutton every night and your bed will sit closest to the fire! For you are a true companion and the bravest hound to ever walk the lands!' The end."

With a wave of his hands the illusions dispersed, sprinkling the children with winking lights. He nudge one sparkling flake to land on the strange girl's nose. She blinked, looking up from her hands with a wide smile. A familiar smile…

The Jötunn brat!

Loki forced his expression to remain easy and light, but watched the changeling from the corner of his vision. It's features were softened in this form, its cheeks a little rounder and its limbs a little fuller, but the underlying structure of its jaw, its nose, the shape of its eyes, those were the same. It even wore its hair in those same braids, though they were now auburn instead of snow white.

Did it think him stupid? That he wouldn't notice? Or was it simply too dull to consider the possibility?

"Tell us another story!"

"Yes, another!"

"Another story?" He murmured. "Hmm…"

He pretended to think as the children shouted suggestions again.

Thor hadn't expressly forbidden the Jötnar from walking the Æsir's floors, but that the brat would do so, even in a borrowed form, was a bold insult. What did it hope to accomplish? Was it here to pilfer supplies? To probe the Æsir's weaknesses? It walked with Asgard's orphaned children. Did it think to steal one away?

"All right," Loki said. "How many of you have heard tell of Sigurd and the One Eyed Giant?" None of them had. It was a tale he would spin as he spoke. "Well, then. Listen close, and you may just learn a thing or two."

As he spoke, he made a point not to look directly at the Jötunn brat, only glancing now and then when it was distracted by his dancing simulacrums— which was not often. More than not, the changeling watched Loki, eyes bright and focused.

"And Sigurd raised his blade and spake: 'I have come to end your wicked reign, Giant!' And so great was his conviction, and so terrible his glare, that the Giant fell to its knees. 'Please,' it begged, 'if you spare my life I will show you to my treasure! You will have more riches than all the Dwarves of Svartalfheim combined."

The brat was watching his hands. Looking to his spellcasting.

"Sigurd agreed to spare the Giant's life and the beast lead him northward to the edge of a sprawling swamp. But when Sigurd set foot in the mud, a serpent rose to greet him, fangs gleaming in the marsh-light. The snake struck but Sigurd was faster, leaping back to solid ground, much to the Giant's disappointment.

" 'Villain!' cried our hero. 'You thought to feed me to these wyrms?'

" 'Of course not,' the Giant squirmed under Sigurd's steely stare. 'The danger must have slipped my mind. A moment, please. I will craft you boots of heather to keep the serpent's sting at bay.' "

And so the Giant did, and so our hero crossed the swamp. Once on solid ground again, he asked, 'now where is this treasure?'

And the Giant replied, ' 'tis only a little further.'"

The changeling twisted its hands, sparks of pale light following the movement before sputtering out. It frowned and Loki hurried to look away as the brat turned its attention back to him.

It was mimicking his casting. Did the creature honestly believe itself capable of mastering Asgard's Arts, sitting on the floor of this rundown wreck?

"And as he climbed the soaring cliffside, a flock of falcons descended upon him, raking at his scalp and back.

" 'Villain!' cried our hero. 'Planned you to see me thrown from the mountain by these raptors?'

" 'Of course not,' the Giant frowned, sweat upon its brow. 'I will fashion you a helmet made of quartz to keep their talons at bay.'

And so the Giant did, and so our hero climbed the cliff. Once on the ledge above he asked, 'now where is this treasure?'

And the Giant replied, ' 'tis only a little further.'"

The Jötunn was still trying to bring its small sparks to life, pulling them into swirling strings about its fingers. It would never manage a proper image like this. Loki had spent a thousand years mastering this art, he had a millennium of tools and tricks to make his simulacrums do as he wished. The brat was trying to run before it had learned to walk.

But...

Loki slowed his hands, exaggerating the movements just a bit, walking through the dance with an exaggerated deliberation.

" 'Villain!' cried our hero. 'Did you seek to bind me with these thorns?'

" 'Of course not,' the Giant wheedled. 'I will fashion you a breastplate made of barks to keep their prickers at bay.'"

A spark caught and grew, becoming something almost like a shadow, featureless and vague, but with some base form. The brat smiled.

It had some talent…

" 'Villain!' cried our hero. 'Did you think to drown me in these pools?'

" 'Of course not,' the Giant sighed. 'I will fashion you a spear made of coral to keep their tentacles at bay.'"

The mushy form limped across the changelings palm, four 'legs' moving with all the grace of a drunken horse. But it was something.

The whelp didn't have skill, no, but that could be learned. No skill, but it had ability, the raw talent necessary to pull energy from its veins and shape it to its will. And if it could channel the energy necessary for an illusion—poorly formed though it was—then there was no reason to think it couldn't channel external energy as well.

The brat looked up, its grin nearly as bright as the illusion slowly losing shape in its hands. Loki smirked back, meeting the changeling's eyes for the first time. The Jötunn's expression dimmed some under Loki's unblinking gaze.

Time for a lesson.

" 'Here,' the Giant said. 'As promised, my treasure for my life.'

"But the Giants hoard was nothing more than bones and rocks, polished and displayed as if they were gold and jewels, as if they were anything more than trash and offal.

"Enraged, Sigurd turned his coral spear upon the Giant and struck. The beast howled in pain and swept a dirty claw at our hero's chest, but the bark armor turned its strike aside. Sigurd stabbed the beast again and the giant bellowed, bringing a stone down upon our hero's head, but his quartz helmet deflected the blow. Sigurd stabbed the beast a third time and it fell to the ground. With the last bits of its strength it kicked out at our hero's legs, but the heather boots absorbed the blow.

"Sigurd stabbed the beast once more and with that it died, its blood painting the bones and stones of its hoard a crimson red. But with those drops of blood the useless trinkets were transformed into glittering rubies. The Giant had kept its promise after all, even if unintentionally."

The illusions burst in a wash of red, dripping down to disappear just before the crowns of the children below. The Jötunn's own illusion had dispersed, the changeling watching wide eyed as the conjured monster had been slain.

"Tell me, children, what is the moral of our tale?" Loki asked, gaze sweeping across their delighted faces.

"Be prepared for anything!" Trinka exclaimed.

"Good equipment is important." Ullie said, his hand raised politely.

"Never trust a Giant!" Gullr yelled.

"The moral," Loki explained, eyes landing on the Changeling. "Always be useful, less someone make use of you."

The children murmured amongst themselves. It was not a very straightforward moral, not something most of them need concern themselves with. But the moral wasn't meant for them.


Marta clapped her hands and announced it was time for bed. The children groaned and complained but pulled out their sleeping things and claimed their patches of floor. Some younger boys shouted and laughed, pretending to stab dishonest Giants as the Matron tried to settle them down. Juri kept out of their way as she slipped out the bay's doors.

Prince Loki had seen her, had recognized her, and his smile had not been kind.

Fjulla hopped into the hallway, bright eyes landing on Juri. "How did you do that?" She asked.

"What?"

"I saw you! You made an image just like the Prince. A little dog!"

"No, I just- I wanted to see if I could. I need to go." Juri hugged herself, keeping a distance from the other girl. From the Às.

"But how did you do it?"

"Yes," another joined them, tall and smirking as he leaned against the door. "How did you do it?"

Fjulla muffled a squeak at the Prince's appearance, her cheeks growing red.

"I was just… I, I watched you."

"And have you trained in seiðr before?" he asked, his eyes flickering across her borrowed form. She didn't know why he asked. He could see she had.

"Yes."

"Who trained you?"

"My omama—I mean, my grandmother."

He hummed. Pushing off the door, and approached with a lazy stroll. "Does your mother know you're here?"

"No." Juri was finding it difficult to speak up, her voice barely escaping her tight throat. Fjulla's earlier embarrassment was turning to confusion.

"Tch, tch. Won't she be worried? Perhaps we best get you back, before she dies of heartache." He placed a hand upon her arm, turning her towards the elevators down the hall.

Juri sent one glance behind her to see Fjulla's uncertain wave goodbye.

Prince Loki didn't speak again until the elevator's doors had closed and the platform began to descend.

"Have you told anyone?" When Juri didn't immediately respond, he elaborated. "What you are?"

"No."

"And what did you hope to accomplish, sneaking about in the halls above?"

"Nothing."

He raised a brow.

"I was just curious…"

"So you thought to prowl amongst the Æsir for… fun, is it? Just because you could?"

She didn't respond.

"You know, of course, had you been found out your blood would now be painting the walls. The Æsir do not take kindly to Jötnar tricks."

"I just thought, I mean, because they know you are-"

He slammed a fist against the control panel. A blast of green light filled the room and the lift jerked to a halt. Juri stumbled and fell against a wall as Prince Loki snarled, magic crawling over his outstretched arm and across his shoulder, shimmering like the air around a flame.

"I have earned my place here," he growled. "I have built, and fought, and bled for Asgard and her peoples. Every man, woman, child, and beast on this ship owes me their very lives! And what have you done? Scraped together a few tasteless morsels to bribe your way into our good graces." He drew a hissing breath in through his teeth. "What use are you? What can you possibly offer to justify your existence on MY ship?"

Another resounding bang and the lift began its descent once more. Loki turned from her, throwing his hair back with a jerk of his head, folding his arms behind his back.

What had she done? What had she done to infuriate him so?

The doors dinged open and Juri scuttled out. The Prince didn't follow, but held the doors to keep them from closing, watching her as she shivered in the drafty corridor.

"Their hatred of you and your mother will not die," he said. "It will build, and, some time soon, they will storm these halls and cry out for your lives. What will you offer them?"

She shook her head. She didn't know. She had nothing to give.

"As I thought." He sniffed. His earlier fury was tamped down. Were she Às, she might say he looked bored. But the Jötnar were not so obvious in their expressions and the slight tightening of the muscles in his neck showed the tension that still thrummed through his body. "I have a proposition. A way to make yourself useful. Do this for me, and I will turn away their ire when it comes."

"What is it?"

"Your seiðr. Clumsy as you are, I think you may be of assistance to me. Have you experience channeling foreign energies?"

Of course. That was the very core of Thermoturgy.

She nodded.

"Good," he said. "I will fetch you tomorrow evening."

"W-wait! My dame. Zhe doesn't know. Zhe'd never let me leave the lower holds. And, ah, zhe doesn't much trust you, either."

"She sleeps?"

"Yes."

"Hm." He thought for a moment. "I'll take care of it. Just be ready. Tomorrow. Midnight. Agreed?"

Juri nodded.

"Excellent!" And he smiled a less than kind smile. Stepping back into the elevator, he tapped a button and called through the closing doors, "pleasant dreams, child."

Juri waited until the sound of the lift faded into the floors above before she ran, bare feet slapping against the cold metal of the corridors.

Her dame was right, the Æsir were cruel and hateful. And Prince Loki was an Às at heart.