Call him Loki. Prince.
He was accustomed to the immediate and necessary sway of those charged with seeing to his needs…and of those, there were many.
He wanted nothing a Prince in 2014 wouldn't desire, and in truth, it wasn't far from what a Prince 400 years ago wouldn't also desire.
Except perhaps a horse-drawn carriage, but then, if he did, in fact, crave such a thing, he surely would have it.
He accepted that if he found something that he wanted, it was his. His mother smiled upon him lavishly, his father, not so much. But then his father wasn't much of Loki's concern. His brother enjoyed the steady cyclopean stare of Odin, King, and Loki was happy to live in shadow. It was rather creepy, at any rate (and he was a dark sort).
It was when at a banquet, dignitaries aplenty, that the Prince first beheld something which caught his eye, unbidden.
Or someone.
Yes, she was a someone, and she was on the arm of a rather ridiculous looking representative from some nation Loki cared little for.
He went to her when she was obtaining some wine from the bar.
"Red or white?" asked the Prince.
The lady looked at him quizzically. "Red. Always."
Fire, then. "I prefer red as well…the merlot on hand is quite good."
She smiled and nodded, and requested the suggested vintage from the tender.
"And what is your name?" the Prince asked.
"Jane," and she sipped.
He nodded, expecting her to bow, or curtsy, or else throw herself at his feet as he had been the custom when he showed a lady attention.
But she did none of this.
He cleared his throat.
"Whom are you here with?"
"Some dignitary…he asked me, since his wife had recently left him, and he knows me from the bookshop."
"The bookshop?"
"My bookshop."
"Ah…" and he smiled.
And they were engaged in conversation for a while, when Jane the Lady took her leave.
The Prince felt bereft of her presence almost immediately…
The next day he sent her flowers.
Nothing.
The following, chocolates (since he had this archaic notion that all ladies adored the sweet, and though he wasn't wrong, he was hardly right).
No response.
And on the third day, he sent her a letter, prose in format, expressing a desire to see her once more.
And Lady Jane (though she wasn't a Lady in the strictest of senses), refused to reply.
"This is not to be born!" cried the Prince to his attendant. "How dare she ignore my attempts!"
"Perhaps, you Highness, she desires more than simple gestures of attention."
"Such as?" he replied in his irritation.
"I cannot say, but something other than the traditional efforts might win her."
And Loki left in a state, running his hand through his hair in agitation.
Such insolence!
Such insubordination!
How can this be so?
What can be done to assuage this contemptible situation?
And he sat at his desk (finely crafted, with heavy dark wood and intricate lines simpering their design), and began to write.
The Prince wrote as never he had before…he wrote metaphors and passion; his heart he did spill, his symbiotic pain of need and custom, until the sun seeped its day through the leaded glass of his chambers.
As for Jane, she thought it humorous to be the object of such fierce attention from a royal.
He wasn't serious.
And if he was, he had better check himself and his antediluvian attitudes.
It had been a week passing thus, in such a state of ridiculous happenings, when a man, dressed very smart, asked to see the purveyor of books at her shop.
"I am she," replied the Lady.
"This, my Lady, is for you."
Jane smiled, and she opened the envelope, and this is what she read.
I want in fact more of you. In my mind I am dressing you with light; I am wrapping you up in blankets of complete acceptance and then I give myself to you. I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.
She smiled, and quaked at the lines…
And Jane did, that very moment, decide to bend…
"She will not have me," the Prince opined to the empty room (save lavish furnishings and a blazing fire).
"Your Highness?" came a voice from the door.
He turned, his visage writhed in torment at the neglect of the Lady.
And the attendant stepped aside.
And Jane the Lady stood there, a piece of paper clenched in her hand, a smile painted on her face.