Chapter Three: Of Blood and Sunshine

She had not felt so furious in all her centuries of living. She had a raging and angry disdain for Iðunn's Mother, finding the woman cruel and self-absorbed in a way she had not encountered in many a year. She was not blind: she saw the abrasions on Iðunn's skin, despite the rapid healing rates of the Asgardian race, and though she had hoped that Loki may have noticed, she was doubtful, as he held hatred for Borghildr, but had never had ill-will towards her. She knew if her son had even began to suspect the abuse Iðunn endured, he would have demanded her Mother be vanquished.

Frigga also suspected Erling's involvement, though how she knew not. She had nothing other than a distrust of the ill-tempered servant, and no proof of his cruelty other than his association with Borghildr. Despite the lack of grounds to attest to such behaviour by either she or Erling, Frigga knew one truth – that her gut did not lie to her. The feelings of discomfort and worry swirled in the pit of her stomach like a great sickness threatening to relieve itself of her body, and she knew only that should she approach Odin with her claims, that despite his scepticism, he would listen to her. She was, after all, known for her precognition.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He was enraptured.

She was stood facing Heimdall, her eyes alight with wonder as the all-seer described to her of life on Midgard, of greenery that stretched far only to end with vast expanses of water that was undrinkable or cities that towered high and greyed the skies with their filth and smoke – Heimdall called it 'pollution' – that they were killing their realm with their selfishness, and yet some remained who were fighting for the green of their home, their 'earth', and that as many trees that were felled were being replaced, that where there had been death new life sprang forth in the same moment, as a Midgardian's life was torn from them that an infant was birthed, such was the cycle on Midgard, the inhabitants lifespans all too short for the wonders of their world. He told her of their penchant for keeping animals, usually hounds or felines, not in enclosures in gardens to be viewed, but in their homes as though they were family akin to children, of women who wore trousers that were not for armour but for their regular dress, of lands made entirely of sand and others entirely of snow and cold, not dissimilar to her hearings of Jotunheim, though Midgardians seemed wise not to inhabit such a space. And though Loki himself was disgusted by the mortal beings mistreatment of their home, he could not find it in himself to scoff when he gazed upon the beauty of her face that was so enthralled by the workings of an inferior realm.

And he was utterly besotted with her. His Mother had been right to say that he loved her. The mere sight of her was enough to send shivers of delight down his spine at the thought that she might return his sentiment in kind. Today was the sixteenth anniversary of her birth, and he had called upon Heimdall to describe to her the more ignorant of the Nine Realms, of who she had such a love, and ever grateful of the gatekeeper's time, Loki promised he would return later with mead and boar from the meal they were to share.

They departed as the sun was descending, the soft golden hue lighting the blades of grass in the gardens as though they had been set aflame, Eir-Iðunn humming with an obvious cheer that warmed him more than the sun. He led her to a clearing and then bid her to halt, and she looked at him in confusion.

"Loki, why must we stop? Evening is upon us and I must return before Mother realises I am gone." Despite Borghildr's demands that Iðunn was to forgo her time with the young Prince, Loki had coaxed her away for her nameday, insisting that he would ensure Borghildr would not miss her daughter's presence.

"I have one gift saved for you, then we shall return with haste, I assure you." He grinned, reassuring her. She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes, her nervousness at the reaction she was sure she would receive upon her return stealing some of her joy. "Watch." Focusing, Loki willed with all his might, arms outstretched, and there before her the grass became flowers, thousands of the coloured buds and petals surrounding them and all of them modelled after Midgard. She gasped, her eyes filling with tears, as she took them all in her sight, squealing and naming them in delight as she jabbered away to him, her joy overflowing. After several minutes, he felt his focus wane and he ceased the illusion, his mind drained, but pleased with her reaction. She turned to him and swallowed.

"You did this for me?"

"Yes." She seemed choked on emotion and he was worried for a moment.

"Why?"

Loki felt he needed no answer, instead opting to pull her close and in the gentlest way he knew, he met her lips with his own. She sighed and leaned into him, her hands clasping at his tunic tightly, as though to let go would be a sin. His hands found their way to her hair, his fingers raking gently through her unruly scarlet curls, only parting from her when both were sufficiently deprived of air.

They walked back hand-in-hand, Loki pressing another soft kiss to her lips before she entered her chambers and risked being seen, and bade her goodnight. She giggled and turned from him, a beaming smile lighting her pale features, and only when she closed her door behind her did he scowl. He was happy, blissfully so, but he had noticed something he had not before.

On her arm, just at the crook of her elbow, was a gash, no bigger than his thumbnail.

It had yet to heal.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Odin, weary in his age, glared down upon them, four of them, all stood before him in a quarrel brought unto him by his wife, who remained at his side.

Loki, Iðunn, Borghildr and Erling, three overcome with anger, and one quivering, a single line of blood running from their temple.