Freya made no protest as Loki pulled her from the room. A heavy, sick sort of feeling was settling in her stomach, Odin's words resounding in her ears.
She was a prisoner in Asgard, despite the fine clothes she wore and the castle they allowed her to live in—as surely as if they had locked her in the dungeons below. She had forgotten that in the last few weeks, forgotten that in wake of Loki's kindness, of his trips to the library with her and his walks through the garden.
Her jaw clenched as she felt her frustration bubble to the surface, her shame at forgetting her place and her situation. She had no right to become placid in the nest of her captures.
Loki stared at her, his brows furrowed, eyes glinting. She turned away, trying to push those feelings back down into the pit of her stomach. He was her enemy, she knew—or he was supposed to be. But she didn't—couldn't—believe it.
Do you insist on being so recklessly stupid?" Loki said, his tone sharp. Freya looked up, surprised, though his words incensed her. Couldn't he see? Couldn't he understand?
"Is it reckless if one has nothing to lose?" she spat back, affronted. She took a step back from him, wrenching her arm from his grasp. He merely advanced on her, his features splitting into anger.
Loki sighed, exasperated. "Can you not see that I am trying to help you? Regardless of your wishes, you are here now, and Father will not send you back to Vanaheim, not until you've married and he controls the Realm completely. And even then, if you are a risk—" Loki paused, staring at her intently. "It's a game Freya— all of it. It's only a game. And the sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be here. Now let me help you."
Freya stared at him, caught between anger and the terrifying realization that he was absolutely right. She felt my hands ball into fists. She looked away, her expression still stormy, though inside, she felt as though she were breaking.
"I don't want my whole life to be a game," she said softly. The words escaped her lips, never meant to be spoken.
When Loki next spoke, his words were true, though his voice softened. "Regardless of wishes, here we are, dice cast and thrown a top the board by no choice of our own. What we can choose is what to do with our lot."
Freya nodded, silently, and stared down at her feet for a moment, her mind racing. "Show me how to play the game."
"I hate this," Freya said hatefully, staring off at something that wasn't there. Loki sighed, giving her a look.
"You know what is at stake here. You've been given all the pieces, now you simply have to hold them together for a night," he said, trying to sound as if he believed it.
"You know that's not true. This will be every night, and every day until the end of mine," she said, sounding distraught. She pulled at the fine red cloth of the dress she wore, delivered hours before for her to wear to the memorial, along with a choker of amber at her throat. A handmaiden had done up her hair in the current Asgardian fashion, weaving gold and glimmering topaz into her silvery hair until it resembled a crown a top her head.
Loki could not deny that she looked beautiful, but the style didn't suit her. She looked so out of place dressed as one of us. He wondered if his father would notice, would fault her for it.
Still, when she tried, there was no one alive who could doubt that she was a princess. The way she held herself, the way she could hold someone's gaze—it was astounding while it lasted.
It had been a long afternoon getting her there, however. Her anger was so profound, so all encompassing that Loki still wasn't convinced that she could pull off the night, no matter how many times he drilled into her proper Asgardian etiquette or the names of important courtiers or of how to act when in from to the people.
"One night at a time," He said, crossing to the door. The sun was beginning to set through Freya's windows. It was time. Loki turned back when she didn't follow. She was staring into the mirror, tugging at this and that. Finally she turned, taking a deep, slightly shaking breath.
"For my father," she whispered, so quietly he knew he wasn't supposed to hear. They stepped out into the hallway and set off towards the Great Hall, where the feast would kick off the evening.
Loki struggled for something to say as they approached the high table. He settled on the obvious. "You look—" he began, but she cut him off.
"Hideous," she said in a way that made him think she really believed it. She had begun pulling once more at her gown in discomfort. Loki reached out and stayed her hand without thinking.
She tensed, her eyes lost in something Loki couldn't see. He felt her hand go rigid under mine, perfectly still, like a statue. He could hear her breath stick in her throat, only for a moment until he hastily let go, his heart racing. Another vision perhaps? Of what he had now idea—
But after a moment Loki saw that it was a man taking his place at the high table. Freya's eyes flashed furiously.
"What is it?" he asked in barely more than a whisper. She ignored him and pulled her hand free. She set off again, purpose evident in her walk. Loki sighed, feeling a pit in his stomach growing as he tried to catch up with her.
Freya couldn't believe he was here. Her hands curled into fists, her jaw clenched and she stared up at him with such fury. She waited until she stood in front of him before speaking.
"Jokulf," she spat, bubbling over with ire. Suddenly all of Loki's words began tumbling out of her head, replaced instead with white hot rage at the man who sat before her, sandy haired and smiling.
He had been her father's most trusted advisor, had advised him to fight back, that a show of force would cause the Aesir forces to back off. He'd disappeared shortly after. Her family had mourned him, fearing he had been taken captive and killed. And yet here he sat, at a place of honor, smiling at her as if nothing was wrong in the world.
Freya could feel Loki catch up behind her, could feel his hand against her back as he tried, no doubt, to stop her from doing something stupid, to move her along to her seat without incident. She dug her heels in, rooting herself. She could hear Loki sigh behind her but ignored him.
"Princess! How lovely it is to see you, how long has it been?" Jokulf said serenely, taking a sip of his wine. He clearly thought he was untouchable here in Asgard's golden halls.
"Do not feign pleasantries with me Jokulf," Freya spat, her voice like ice.
"I know not what you speak of my Lady," he said, leaning back in his chair and smiling cruelly. She leaned forward, her voice lowering so that only he could hear.
"You will pay for your crimes against Vanaheim, whether it be this century or the next, I will make sure that you pay in the most hideous way possible. And I will laugh when I hear your death-screams. Remember that Jokulf. Not even the Allfather will be able to save you. You are living on borrowed time."
Freya straightened up, her posture still rigidly furious. She turned back to look at Loki and nodded. He could see the effort she took to rearrange her features so they appeared only impassive. Loki glanced at the man who had upset her, only to see that his face was full of fear. He raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't comment.
They took their places at the table, Freya once more between Thor and he as was the custom. Thor turned to her and smiled. "How do you fair, Princess? It has been quite a while since anyone has seen you about. Baring today of course."
Loki tensed slightly as Freya's face slipped into one of confusion. She recovered quickly, though he knew Thor's words had puzzled her.
No one other than their mother knew the time Loki had been spending with Vanaheim's captured princess, and even she did not know the extent of their time spent together. Loki had taken to casting enchantments over them when we walked through the gardens or sat silently side by side in the library.
He told himself that he was doing it to protect her, but there was a part of him that doubted that was wholly true.
"There is no need for such formalities, Thor," Freya said, her voice suddenly filled with warmth. "I fair well this day, as I may yet usher my father into the fields of Folkvagnr. My thanks for your intervention this morning, for I fear without it I may not have had this chance."
Thor smiled wider but Loki found himself grinding his teeth. "You are more than welcome Lady Valfreya."
"You are most kind, your Grace."
"If I may, you truly look stunning tonight my Lady," Thor said, his eyes sparkling. Freya looked up at him, a coy smile playing around her lips.
"There it is, appeal to her vanity, Brother. It's practically in the name—Vanir," Loki said with distaste. He disliked her new attitude towards Thor. He sat back in his chair and grabbed his glass of wine. Freya looked at him sharply, and for a moment he thought she looked hurt, but her expression changed too fast for him to be certain.
"It is true that many have accused the Vanir of vanity, my Prince," she said, evenly, though her eyes lingered on Loki's as she uttered 'my Prince." The title felt foreign on his ears as she never addressed me more formally than by my first name.
"Though perhaps it is jealousy, I think," Freya continued, turning back to Thor. "Is it vain to possess fine things if one is able, or to dress to enhance one's natural charms?"
"I would think not," Thor said, laughing. The coy smile had reappeared on Freya's lips once more, though this time her eyes sparkled devilishly. She knew this behavior incensed him, and yet she blatantly continued. Loki took another long drink of wine.
"I would be loath to be thought of as vain though," Freya said. I looked up at her mildly. "Perhaps through Asgardian eyes I could be seen as so, but I would not like to upset my brother by taking yet another title from him. And this one he enjoys!"
Odin stood at the middle of the high table and those amassed in the great hall fell silent at once. Freya shifted uncomfortably next to me. Thor noticed and smiled at her reassuringly. Loki bit his cheek.
"Today we honor my brother Vè, taken from us far too soon. For years we have sought to avenge him in war and finally we have done so, proving that the might of Asgard cannot be matched by our enemies," Odin began, his voice thundering over the hall. "It is time for reparations to be made."
At that Freya's head shot up. Loki could feel a sense of foreboding rising in the pit of his stomach. He had thought reparations had already been taken from the Vanir.
"Princess Freya, First of her name, heir to the realm Vanaheim, and ward of Asgard, step forward."
There was nothing but the sound of Freya's shoes clicking against the stone floor. She held her head high and her face was impassive. When she came to face Odin she gave only the slightest incline of her head by way of bow.
The hall waited on bated breath. Loki could see the color in his father's cheeks, see his barely repressed rage. But he could also see the faces of those who sat below, who shifted uneasily in their seats, or stood transfixed by Freya's image as she stood, stock-still, impertinent—regal.
"I was not aware there was anything left to take from my dear Vanaheim," Freya said boldly. Loki sighed heavily. This was the exact opposite of what they had practiced—
A crack echoed through the hall, as loud as thunder. Odin hadn't moved, but Freya lay on the ground. She struggled to get up to her hands and knees, but a second crack rang out, this one louder, more intense. There were cries from the crowd as Freya weakly struggled to her knees.
Freya had no idea what she was playing at. Loki could only imagine how enraged his father had to be. Odin already reviled the girl, though why precisely, Loki was unsure. It had to do with something that had happen on Vanaheim, though he was loath to ask what.
She was trying to stand, Loki could see. The fool. She had no sense of self-preservation what so ever, only a blinding moral compass that was leading her straight into her grave. She stopped, only because she seemed unable to and settled into a kneeling position.
"I ask for my father's body, so that he may be buried," Freya said loudly from where she knelt. Odin snorted.
"These reparations are not for you—" Odin cried, losing his impassive mask. "I want to know what happened to my brother in Vanaheim, I want you to tell Asgard what your people did to him—"
A third crack echoed through the hall, this time leaving Freya nearly motionless. Loki darted out from his seat and charged forward to stand in front of her. He could see her stirring subtly from behind him, hear the sounds of outrage beginning to ring out from the crowd.
She looked so small, so powerless, lying on the floor in that red dress that looked like a stain of blood across the marble. Yet she still stirred, still refused to give in. She was infuriating.
"Enough Father!" Silence once more fell over the hall, heavy and full of bated breath. Odin stared at Loki, his ire for Freya falling onto his son. "Father, I believe you forget, we are no longer at war,"
His father surveyed him, his jaw set.
"Vé was my brother, lest you forget."
"And Njord, her father. Both sides suffered loss, Father. You only perpetuate ill will. She is just a girl, Father. She sees us all as monsters. We have taken away her father, her home, her brother. She expects nothing but cruelty at our hands. Let her see that we are not all monsters. That perhaps she can find happiness here, learn to love the Realm."
"You know not what you speak of my son. This girl you speak of killed our men, wiped out fleets of the Asgardians you let her walk among. Do not be fooled by her pretty face," Odin said, his voice rising. Loki stared back up at him, brows furrowed.
"This girl," Odin continued, rising to his full hight, anger painting his face ruddy, "this girl is The Necromancer you heard tell of, the Enchantress who nearly decimated our forces, and would have, had she not been captured."
Loki stared at Freya, his mind whirring. He knew magic ran through the Vanir strongest of all of the races. But could this frightened, beaten girl be the feared Enchantress? Uneasy muttering began to fill the hall as the people turned to one another, fear evident in the buzz of their voices.
And yet she did nothing. This powerful Enchantress his father condemned—she struggled to get to her feet. She fell as she tried, landing face down once more, her only movement the trembling of her shoulders. She was crying, Loki realized. He had never considered her doing something so vulnerable—so human.
Loki turned back up at his father. "She is the Princess of Vanaheim, honor bound to protect her home and her people. If she were to use her skills to do so, who could blame her? She was defending herself."
Odin glowered down at Loki, but the will of the room that had been firmly behind him just a few minutes before was shifting in favor of the girl lying on the marble steps. Loki was sure they were beginning to doubt whether she could indeed be as Odin had said.
Loki could hear a few behind him, wondering why she hadn't struck back, or indeed raised a hand to defend herself. He wondered that himself. Still, he spoke, the words tumbling from his tongue without leaving time for them to flit through his mind first.
"If I may, Father, she is a princess, and I believe she should be treated as such. If she is skilled in the art of sorcery as you say, Father, she could teach me the ways of the Vanir's magic. I would accept her as my responsibility."
Odin stared down at Loki for a moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he nodded.
"Fine. On your head, be it."
"Thank you Father," I said, my voice nearly impassive. Odin stared back, a strange look passing between us, one that I didn't fully comprehend.