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Chapter Text

I.

She was standing on the deck with the other women, watching the langskip coming deeper into the fjord, her rowers using their oars in cadence. The wind had slightly calmed down, but the rain was still pouring, and she clutched a hand on her cloak to make sure it kept closed over her chest, and over her precious load. The tiny little boy who she was waiting with. Who she was about to introduce to his father. Who was to be officially named by his father, even though she had started to think of him as Eskil, after her own father. She held him tighter against her heart, sharing her warmth with him. He was sound asleep, comforted by her presence and the smell of her skin and of her milk.

Dagbjört, her sister-in-law, was standing next to her, holding her daughter by the hand, her youngest son perched on her hip. She caught her eye and gave an encouraging smile, her cheeks round and red from the cold air.

“Ásgeir is going to be so proud when he sees his son”, she said.

She nodded, smiling.

I miss him, she thought.

Could she confess it?

Ásgeir was a well-built, merry man, with a comely face and strong arms to keep her safe and warm at night. She was looking forward to seeing him back.

He had left with the other men, embarked on her brother’s boat to raid Alba during summer and bring back cattle and grain to survive during winter, for life on these wind-blown islands was harsh.

“Why aren’t they using the sail?”

It was odd. It was windy, and it seemed to her that it would be easier than rowing all the way from the entry of the fjord.

“Maybe it was worn out during the voyage?” said Dagbjört.

“No. Your husband takes good care of his boat, you know it.”

She frowned.

It was odd, indeed.

They must have had a terrible journey.

A heavy lump set in her throat, and she swallowed hard, in vain. Anxiety was settling in her.

Frigga, please let them be safe and sound.

She held her infant tighter, intending to comfort him, knowing deep she was comforting herself. The baby sighed in his sleep, well hidden under his mother’s woollen cloak.

As the langskip approached the safe haven deeply harboured in the fjord, women began to murmur around her. The boat looked battered, the yardarm obviously broken and fixed with ropes. That was why they were rowing instead of sailing. The men aboard looked tired. Exhausted, for some of them.

What happened?

It was late in the season, almost a moon after the equinox. They should have come back sooner, when the winds and the sea weren’t so rough. They must have weathered a bad storm during the journey.

She watched intently the crew as the langskip docked. Tired men, with damp, tangled hair clinging to their foreheads and cheeks. Where was Ásgeir’s bright red mane?

Her brother stepped out of the boat and walked straight to Dagbjört, hugging his wife and children. She took a step to walk past him, tiptoeing to try and catch a glimpse of her husband’s stocky form, but he put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.

“Eyð”, he greeted her.

“Tórmóður”, she said. “You look tired.”

“The voyage has been… difficult.”

She frowned. He never complained. Ever.

“I can’t see Ásgeir. Is he a aboard another boat?”

He gave a look at his wife and nodded, and she walked a few steps away with the children. Through his beard, she could see him chewing his lip.

“Rán took him”, he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t understand.

She watched him, unmoving, her mind blank, trying to process what he just said, and he squeezed her shoulder in sympathy.

R án took him.

Rán.

One of Ægir’s daughters. The Bloody One. The Ravisher.

 “What?” she said weakly.

“A wave took him, along with three other men. He sunk like a stone.”

Ásgeir wasn’t coming back.

He drowned.

She blinked and tried to swallow, her mouth dry.

Her child chose this moment to stir in her arms. Her child. Ásgeir’s son.

“What about his sword?”

“I’m sorry, Eyð.”

His son would never know his father. He would never inherit his father’s sword, either.

She was standing on the dock, petrified, not knowing what to do.

“Come, let us get dry in the langhállr. Your husband’s share is yours.”

He rotated her and gave a gentle push to make her move. Her body walked by itself. She felt empty, hollow. Her mind was numb, preventing any thought or emotion. She felt nothing. When she was given a seat in the longhouse, her baby stirred and whined, and she unclipped her cloak to give him some air before untying the collar of her dress to feed him.

She watched him, her beautiful son, with fine blond hair and fair eyebrows and long eyelashes. With tiny fingers gripping her dress.

Eskil. No. Ásgeir, for he was to be named after his dead father, now.

Two weeks old, and an orphan already.

She had entrusted her farm to her Irish slaves and moved in her brother’s farm a few weeks before she gave birth to Eskil – no, Ásgeir. Because she wanted her husband to meet his son as soon as he would take step on dry land.

She closed her eyes, lightly shaking her head.

Don’t think.

Don’t think until you’re home.

The men had already shared their prizes when joining in the Jarl’s longhouse in Tórshavn, before coming back each in their isle with their share to celebrate with their families. Sitting here in the longhouse in Árnafjørður, she was feeling totally out of place. She closed her mind, closing herself to any feeling, only to avoid her grief. She would start mourning her husband when she would get back home.

At some point, she heard her name, and came out of her fogged mind with great effort. She took a deep inhale and focused on Tórmóður, who was speaking to her.

“ – enough grain to bake bread and brew ale for winter.”

She nodded, not understanding fully was she was agreeing to.

I don’t care.

“And I want you to take care of this hostage. Use him as a slave until spring comes. He is strong and capable, and will be of great help for the tasks in your farm.”

He pointed a tall, dark-haired man standing against a wall, surrounded by frightened slaves. He, on the contrary, looked utterly bored, examining his nails though his wrists were tightly tied with ropes.

Did a slave look bored?

“Come, þræll.”

The man glared at Tórmóður, slowly lowering his hands to his belly, reclining against the wall.  A man caught the rope that was knotted around his neck and pulled him towards the centre of the room. He reluctantly obeyed, stiffening and straightening his shoulders to stand in his full height. He carried himself like he was the very Jarl, standing tall and proud, his legs firmly planted. Even though his clothes were dirty and crusted blood was soiling his temple, he held his chin high in disdain, and she could see an iron thrall shackle around his neck. Had Tórmóður shackled him? What for? These metallic bindings were not common, and reserved for high-value slaves, or intended to humiliate their bearer.

“Ásgeir and I took him just before we left Alba.”

She stood, and the man’s glowing green eyes settled on her, studying her.

“Why would you give him to me? I already have slaves.”

She liked the couple of Irish slaves she had known since she married Ásgeir well enough. They were kind and devoted to their family.

“They are getting old. This one is younger and stronger. He is of high value. You are to take care of him, keep him in shape, and when spring comes, we’ll see to sell him back to his family.”

So she had guessed right. The iron collar was meant to humiliate this high born slave. He was older than her, perhaps twenty-five. His slender frame made her think he would have to be abundantly fed, whilst his broad shoulders showed his strength. But there was something in him that she didn’t like. The man didn’t look scared or defeated. He wasn’t resigned, either. He was angry, arrogant. And from his keen eyes, she could say he was clever. He looked like the kind of man who could murder a whole family in plain day and never have remorse about it, and she didn’t want her throat cut.

“I don’t want him. He looks sly.”

The man rolled his eyes and scoffed, which owed him a punch in the face he endured without a sound. He only sniffed loudly and scowled all the more.

So he was insolent, too. What was the use of an insolent slave?

“I don’t like him.”

Tórmóður gave a heavy sigh when Dagbjört said that they could keep him. She was eyeing him with unabashed hunger, obviously finding him a fine specimen.

“You’ll need another pair of arms now.”

“He’s too tall. I don’t have enough food for him.”

“Yes you do. You’ll have to feed the same number of people.”

Tórmóður’s sentence stroke her like a slap in the face and she blanched, her gaze hard, keeping silent under was she took as an insult. The dead didn’t eat. This arrogant, useless slave would have Ásgeir’s food.

“It is settled, then”, he decided. “Off with you, Your Highness”, and he derisively gestured at the man, “you are to sleep with the sheep.”

The thrall gave her a final glance before he let the man that was holding the rope lead him out of the longhouse. She shook her head in disapproval.

“Give me your child, Eyð. Since your husband is dead, I’ll perform the rite.”

She swallowed. Her son had to be officially legitimated to fully inherit his father’s patrimony. She presented the little boy and her brother took him in his large paws, untying the cloth he was swaddled in, exposing the bare body, and lifted him, showing him off to the community.

“Behold my nephew, Ásgeir Ásgeirsson. I shall love him like my own son. When he comes of age, I’ll foster him.”

He then splashed him with water, which made the baby cry, and gave him back to his mother. She quickly covered him and cradled the tiny body, humming to shush his protesting wails.

***

The following day, she managed to sail back to Svínoy, along with the two men who had accompanied Ásgeir during the summer raid in Alba. They embarked in Ásgeir’s skúta, taking heavy bags of grain and a gestating cow with them.

The high born thrall came along too, still proud and arrogant. He faced the sea, silent and scowling, grudgingly obeying the men when they ordered him to help during the sailing. She casted him a few glances to ensure he would keep still, and when he was allowed to sit, she lost interest in him.

Little Ásgeir wouldn’t stop crying.

She nursed him, cradled him. Nothing would do. It seemed he hated being on the sea.

It is no wonder. The sea took his father.

When it started raining, she begged the Gods to help them land quickly in the bay they used as a harbour.

Finally, they came ashore before the sun began to set down, and she let a heavy sigh of relief when she felt hard land under her feet. Ronan, the Irish slave, was waiting for them along with the dog. The three men and the þræll took care of the food and of the cow whilst she walked back to the house, her son still wailing in her arms.

She nearly fell in Orla’s arms, the slave woman understanding at once when she saw her alone and distressed, and let her tears flow. Orla hugged her like a child, and when she managed to calm down a bit, took her baby in her arms and helped her walk in. She retreated to the master’s bedroom, and fell on the bed.

It was cold and empty.

She was alone.

She had even been denied to see her husband’s body. He was now laying on the bottom of the sea, eaten by fish and crabs. And his soul, his soul…

It was like a hole in her chest.

Her tears came back, and she let her sorrow and grief overcome her, clutching her pillow, sobbing violently and wailing, until she cried herself to sleep.

***

He didn’t sleep, that night.

The unpleasantly sweet smell of the cow dung mixed with his own stench was unbearable for his olfaction. He’d visited slave markets more than once, though, and should have known what to expect. After the horrible travel by sea, most of the wretched people he had been brought with smelled of vomit and urine.

He wasn’t even allowed to wash before getting in the small fishing boat with the sad woman.

When they landed on another island, the Irishman – Ronan ? – a thrall, for sure – pushed him into the byre, alongside the two cows. He pointed a dirty finger to a corner, then turned around and left. A pile of hay was to be his mattress.

Well, it was better than sleeping on the bare ground. Or in the manure.

He sat down in the designated place, his forearms resting on his knees, and waited. The byre was connected to the house, a plank partition dividing the main room from the animals. He would be kept there, for sure, whereas he could hear the man’s voice in the house. The baby was crying. He could hear his mother’s sobs, too.

A mournful widow. How touching, indeed.

Her husband was a boorish brute, who had overcome him, taking advantage of his weakness. The enchanted collar had taken all his powers, and though he was pretty sure he was still immortal and physically stronger than humans, he was starved and diminished. He felt ashamed of himself at the thought that the man had knocked him out.

As soon as he had been tied up, they had got him on board of their langskip. He couldn’t help laughing when the yokel was swept out of the boat by a wave, never to reappear on the surface. The stupid bumpkin was wearing his chainmail. Watching his shipmates yelling at the sea, encouraging the ginger moron to swim up had been satisfactory. He had laughed hard, as much in exultation as in provocation, until one of the warriors turned to him and punched him in the face until his laughter receded. He would only be content when they would all lay dead at his feet. They had no idea who he was, bunch of stupid, arrogant mortals that they were.

Once he would be free, he would seek revenge upon all those who had wronged him. They wouldn’t even have any occasion to feel sorry for themselves, for he would let none of them alive, no matter what his father could say.

Nursing the sweet thought of revenge, he tried to make himself comfortable, laying on his back, an arm tucked behind his head, eyes closed. The baby was still crying, despite the female slave’s attempts to calm him. It was irritating. With a heavy sigh, he concentrated on his heartbeat, making his best not to listen to the noises of the household.

When finally at dawn the baby’s wails calmed down and stopped, he allowed himself to drift off.

Chapter Text

II.

A warm, wet, supple thing wiped his face.

“Wake up, you shirker. Don’t think you can laze around until my brother sells you.”

A woman’s voice, and a kick in his shin.

He cracked an eye open, only to meet the black and white dog’s tongue, licking his face. He jerked it off and sat abruptly, anger and resent suddenly filling him.

How did she dare kick him?

“Don’t hurt the dog.”

“Then keep it off”, he snarled, standing and scornfully staring down at the young woman from his height. She craned her neck but didn’t blink, scowling at him.

The farmer’s widow. Brave little mortal.

“You need to wash, þræll. You smell of shit and vomit.”

She turned her back to him and walked out.

She was wearing practical clothes: a pair of breeches and a knee-length woollen tunic. Her dark blonde hair was tied in a simple braid hanging in her back down to her waist.

He growled and followed suit. As sour-tempered as she might be, she was right: he seriously needed to wash.

As he crossed the threshold of the cowshed, his nostrils and lungs welcomed the fresh wind coming from the open sea. He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply, then opened them again to take in his surroundings.

Blue sky with white clouds running in the wind. Green hills ending in black cliffs over the sea. Waves crashing at their feet. And around him, wooden buildings, painted black, their roof covered with green, lush grass, just as if the house and barns mimicked the colours of the landscape. A small garden of onions and cabbage, turnips and carrots. A dry masonry paddock with three small horses in it.

Not a wealthy farm.

He sighed.

He had back luck. First, the collar, and now, this. Peasants, cattle, dung, on almost sterile islands. Surely his father was punishing him for a joke he made just before he left. He casted a dismayed look to the sky, silently calling Heimdall.

The woman slave was standing, waiting for him. She waved her hand to him.

“Take that cloth off.”

He felt annoyed to no point. The old hag dared giving him orders. He decided to tease her, not wanting to give her the pleasure of angrying him.

“Want to enjoy the sight of what’s underneath it?”, he replied, chuckling, doing as he was told.

“You’re not the first naked man I see. Skin is just skin.”

He chortled at her cockiness, but as soon as the dirty shirt fell on the ground, he was hit by cold water thrown on his back, and could barely muffle an indignant cry. Spinning on his heels, he met the widow’s gaze, hard and angry, an empty bucket in her hands. He straightened and lifted his chin, defiant and ominous. The female slave laughed.

The widow tossed him the bucket and left.

“Off with the trousers, too.”

He gritted his teeth. He swore to himself, he would throw the old hag from a cliff at any occasion. But for now, he wouldn’t let himself be humiliated by her. He obeyed and straightened, holding his chin high, standing tall, stark naked in the courtyard, only wearing the damned collar that showed his condition and a haughty smile on his lips. Many women had seen him naked, and he knew very well he had nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, his royal demeanour could make those peasants feel shame upon the infamous treatment they were offering him.

Stupid mortals.

“Call me Orla”, said the woman, handing him a bowl of soft soap, tucking a strand of grey hair under her kerchief.

Ignoring her, he rubbed his skin and hair, washing himself thoroughly, taking his fair time in spite of the cold wind.

Orla put another bucket of water next to him, and he pursed his lips in anticipation before he poured the cold liquid over his head to rinse, and shook himself, shivering in the wind. He dried his wet skin and dripping hair with a piece of cloth the old woman gave him, and turned around when she looked pass him. The widow was standing there, dry clothes in her hands, staring at the shirt she was holding. She looked young. Young and distressed, for now.

She raised her gaze to him, looking directly in his eyes, carefully avoiding his body – interesting – and held him the clothes. She averted her eyes and chewed her bottom lip when he took them without a word. He slipped the trousers on swiftly. They were too short. The shirt was large enough, but he had longer arms than the owner of the garment. She gave him a quick look, her eyes hard and lips pressed in a thin line.

“This won’t do.”

His voice was low, barely a growl.

“My husband was shorter than you”, she muttered.

“What’s your name, boy?”

He rolled his eyes at the slave’s question and huffed in disdain.

“Answer, þræll”, snapped the widow.

He watched her intently, a sly smile on his lips, making sure to trouble her, enjoying the light signs of her uneasiness, her pressed lips, pallid skin, wide eyes. He noticed the way she was fidgeting with a ring. She was desperately trying to appear hard and tough, but he knew she feared him. Clever girl.

He took a step to her, then a second, and leaned slightly.

“Hveðrungr”, he purred in a low, dark voice.

Oh, how he enjoyed her quiet gasp and wide eyes.

“What?” she squeaked like a mouse.

He smirked and raised his brows as if to say you heard well.

She spun and walked – flew – inside the house, and he chuckled. This was way too easy.

“Poor girl”, said Orla once her mistress was far enough. “She gave you one of her husband’s shirts. Ásgeir and she got on so well together.”

He didn’t even bother to grunt in acknowledgement.

***

This was bad omen.

She didn’t want this man under her roof.

There was something – what? – in him that made her blood curl.

The malevolent glint in his green eyes. The way he carried himself, as if he was royalty. The dark, graveling voice he had used when he told his name.

That name.

It couldn’t possibly be his given name. What kind of father could curse his son with such a name? The fact that he had chosen to hide his name and use that one clearly showed he was dangerous.

Hveðrungr.

“The roarer”.

One of the many names of Loki, the God of Chaos, the Disgrace of Gods and Men, the Bearer of Destruction.

The thought swirled in her mind, that he was a murderer, that he was an outcast. That she was in danger in her own house, for one could choose to call themself Hveðrungr, after the god of Discord, only if they were up to no good.

And at the present time, her life was already filled enough with chaos. She didn’t need this man to trouble her any further.

She was pacing back and forth, franticly, her palm pressed on her brow, breathing hard.

Fear was mixing with her grief.

His shirt was dirty and torn. She wanted to give him a clean one – to treat him decently, if he really was a valuable hostage. He was so tall that only Ásgeir’s shirts would fit, for her husband had broad shoulders. But it was painful to see his shirt worn by the stranger. It was like betraying Ásgeir, and she couldn’t stand it.

She was breathing hard, feeling nauseated.

This obnoxious þræll couldn’t be allowed to wear Ásgeir’s shirt.

She would have to sew him his own shirt, and take the other back.

Now that she thought of it, it was the only thing to do.

Panting, her breath sounding wheezy, she slammed her chest open and searched for a piece of brown woollen cloth she had woven last winter. She quickly found it and set herself to work, cutting the cloth with dexterity.

As she was sitting on the bench before the door to sew outside in the light, she spotted Ronan.

“The roof of the sheephold is leaking”, she said. “Go and fix it. Take the þræll with you.”

She watched them walk away, one short and stocky, waddling on crooked legs, the other tall and slender and strong, moving nimbly like a fox on the prowl. She noticed once more how inappropriate it seemed to see this shirt on him.

She frowned and bent over her task, working fast. She didn’t care if the shirt was imperfect, it had to be worn before nightfall.

She sewed and sewed, aligning the stitches, assembling the shoulders, then the sleeves, then the sides, not caring about her painful fingers.

Orla gave her son to her when he needed to be nursed, and took care of the baby while she sewed, silently nodding when she said she couldn’t let him wear her husband’s clothes. She knew there was a glint of pity in the old slave’s eyes, but she tried to ignore it, focusing on her task, counting the stitches to keep her mind numb.

Finally, she finished at sunset, tying her thread in a tight knot and cutting it just as Ronan and the þræll came back. She handed him the garment. He wordlessly watched her before taking it.

“Wear it right now. Give me this shirt back.”

He frowned slightly, observing her with keen eyes. She lifted her chin in defiance, and his lips stretched in a slight smirk. She wanted to slap him. Why didn’t she do it? He finally obeyed and gave the shirt back before wearing the new one. The sleeves were long enough and she nodded in appreciation. This wasn’t the finest shirt she had ever sewn by far, but it would do.

“Thank you”, he murmured unexpectedly, and her only answer was a cold stare.

She folded Ásgeir’s shirt, entering the house, intending to put it in his chest immediately. The cloth was pleasantly warm, and she absent-mindedly pressed her nose in it, only to be met with a painful emotional twinge. Ásgeir’s musky and salty scent was mixed with the þræll’s one. Something that made her think of her childhood, back in Norway, before she married Ásgeir, whose father was her father’s cousin. The þræll smelled of snow and spruce. Of the forest above her father’s farm, where she hunted rabbits during winter, catching them with snares. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell – even a pleasant one, she thought, immediately scolding herself for thinking that this appalling man could be pleasant in any manner – but it wasn’t her husband’s. Her eyes burned and stung, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to form. She would have to wash the shirt.

She allowed the þræll in the house that evening, only to take his meal with the household. He had done a fine work with Ronan on the roof of the sheep hold and eating by the firepit was his reward. Kolfinnr and Arni, Ásgeir’s men, had rested during the day and would go inside the island tomorrow to gather the sheep for winter. Perhaps she would send the þræll too, for Ronan’s legs didn’t allow him to walk fast enough. She bitterly pressed her lips together, thinking that Tórmoður was right. She needed a strong slave to do the farm work.

She casted a glance at him. He was sitting at a distance, withdrawn and brooding, his eyes lowered on the planked floor, eating his porridge in silence. He must have felt observed, though, for he looked directly at her and held her stare with more curiosity than contempt. After a few moments, she averted her eyes under the guise of picking a piece of hard cheese, inly grateful for the dimness of the house that hid the flush she felt creeping in her cheeks, once again silently scolding herself for letting him make her uneasy.

***

In the following days, they all had a lot of work to do.

He went gathering the sheep with Arni and Kolfinnr, the two men riding, he walking behind them. The black and white dog was with them. It often came to him, curious and friendly, waving its tail. He scowled at the ridiculous, hairy beast, in vain. The men talked to each other, seemingly oblivious of him.

Being a þræll had its perks.

He could listen to them and learn things about the farm and its inhabitants. Things that could help him sneak his way out of the barn and into the house, for he had to be treated with more respect than he received for the time being.

Now that the farmer was dead, the two warriors had no interest in staying here, working for his widow. The woman – Eyð, they called her – was pretty, but the estate wasn’t wealthy enough to make a man burden himself with a howling bairn that kept everyone from sleeping at night.

He barely suppressed a snort of laughter at the comment, for the child was positively exhausting.

They would stay during winter warming by her fire, eating her dried meat and fish, drinking her ale, and be gone come spring.

It didn’t seemed fair.

Well, he planned to do just the same thing, but coming from them, it didn’t seem fair all the same.

They must be second or third sons, deprived of any inheritance, and her husband must have hired them to work and fight with him. Their loyalty was really thin. He knew she needed them. Ronan and Orla were faithful and hardworking, but they were old and not as strong as they might have been. Once Arni and Kolfinnr would be gone, once he would be gone, her farm would slowly decline, for she wasn’t strong enough on her own. She and her child would starve, sooner or later.

Why should I care?

He had been here only for two days.

Two days in which he had been treated far better than in the previous weeks. She had fed him. Had allowed him to wash and sit beside the fire. Had even sewn a shirt for him. It was oddly comforting, after the weeks he had been through. His capture, his enslaving. After being starved and beaten. After the worst of it – the curse.

Walking in the damp grass behind the riders, he gave a bitter smile at his thoughts.

He would have his revenge.

Time was on his side, after all, and he could be very patient when he needed to.

Chapter Text

Wounds of my mind, unseen
Under the leaves I won't fall
Voices invade my box
I lay my hand upon the floor

Comes and goes again
Breathe in, out in vain
The echoes of me beat in my head

Let it go out
Let it go out

Black Lilys, Boxes

III.

They all were very busy for two weeks. Kolfinnr, Arni and Hveðrungr herded the sheep back to the farm. They worked well together, the two men laughing and joking, the þræll aloof and scowling, but obviously not reluctant to help. It was a relief for Eyð, because at first she had feared that the man would be difficult, or sly, or worse – dangerous. Well, he was quite withdrawn and not the most compliant, but she sometimes managed to almost forget about him.

The hard work was, in its own way, liberating. It helped her avoiding to think of her grief, and offered her a respite at least for a few hours.

There was a lot to do. Once the sheep were gathered in the sheephold – and the paddock, for there was too many of them – they had to sort the beasts in order to keep the finest ones during winter. They slaughtered the others, skinned them, and preserved the meat in brine, or hung it to dry in the airy cellar.

During daytime, Eyð was too busy to think about anything but working, or nursing little Ásgeir.

But the child, as calm and lovely as he was during the day, began to cry at sunset, which came earlier as they were heading to the dark days of winter, only to stop several hours later, when he was exhausted. She cradled him, humming lullabies to soothe him, but nothing would do. He didn’t seem to be in pain, though. He was strong and healthy, but still he wailed. She thought, in the depth of her heart, that her grief soaked through her and into the child, that he mourned with her. She often cried of exhaustion along with him, sitting on the edge of her bed, rocking both herself and the baby, until he finally fell asleep and allowed her to rest for a few hours.

She often dreamt of huge waves battering the coast and coming up to the farm, flooding the buildings and carrying her and the baby away to the sea. Sometimes, she woke up choking when she drowned in her dream. Sometimes, a big seal bull went to rescue them, holding their heads out of the water, allowing them to take large gulps of air until the surf washed them ashore.

In the mornings, she felt relieved when her son woke her out of her dreams and suckled on her engorged and painful breasts, emptying them of their milk. And those peaceful moments, the little sounds he made when he gulped, his contented sigh when he was satiated made her heart swell with love.

Two days after the end of the slaughter, she left Arni and Kolfinnr to cut the meat. Ronan would hang it in the slatted cellar and Orla would take care of the sheepskins.

 She had left the baby sleeping, and was feeding the cows with hay in the byre while Hveðrungr scraped out the manure, both of them working in silence. He scowled and kept his jaws tight, and it could have made her smile to see his indignation, if she allowed herself to smile and have fun. The man obviously had never worked a day in his life, and found offensive to shovel the cowpat out of the shed. She couldn’t complain of the work, though: the two cows were pleasantly warm, and she and Hveðrungr were sheltered from the wind in there. She felt comfortable with the silence between them, and the slave didn’t trouble her. She focused on her task, avoiding any thought, trying to voluntarily dull her mind.

Ronan came at the door and announced that a boat was landing. In the corner of her eye, she noticed the þræll stopping, resting the blade of his shovel on the floor, turning to her. She felt discomfort, and a twinge of fear, both at being visited by someone – what were their intentions? – and at being observed by the dark-haired slave. The man had a talent at making others feel uneasy, always scrutinizing with keen eyes, keeping silent, always keeping his thoughts for him. She had trouble figuring him out, and she didn’t like him for that.

“Whose boat is it?”

The old man shook his head. He had poor eyesight.

“Give me my dagger.”

She glanced at Hveðrungr. He was calm. Calm and observant.

Gauging her.

“There’s an axe in the back of the byre.”

She was reluctant to entrust him with a weapon, for he certainly looked like he could turn it against her, but she had no choice. He was tall and strong, and she needed his help if these men had bad intentions.

“I know”, he answered, his voice low and dark.

She gave him a suspicious look and went out, motioning him to follow. The boat was already moored in the cove, and six men were walking towards the farm. She couldn’t see who it was in the backlight.

 “But this is your brother, surely he doesn’t intend to harm you.”

She blinked, focusing on the visitors, surprised to acknowledge he was right.

“You have a sharp eye.”

He kept silent, moving a bit to stand a step behind her. Offering protection.

Could she trust him?

Arni or Kolfinnr should have stood in his place.

Where were they?

She had no time for such questions, and would have to deal with this later. The blond hair and reddish beard of the man walking with Tórmóður made him identifiable.

“Ólafur Bjarnarson. My husband’s brother.”

He grunted.

What did they want?

She didn’t wish for any company right now. She was fine on her own, and didn’t crave chatting with anyone. She sighed in annoyance and shook her head. The next moment, straightening her spine and plastering a welcoming smile on her face, she walked down to greet the visitors, inviting them to eat and drink in the house. A determined look to Hveðrungr was enough to let him know that he was to go back to work, and she was relieved to see him bend his head and enter the byre just as she crossed the threshold of her house. She knew he would be just behind the planked wall, close enough to join her inside the house if needed, but he made it clear that he knew his place for now. She didn’t dare to let out a sigh, though, tensed as she was because of the presence of Ólafur.

She invited them to sit, gave them bread and cheese while Orla served them a goblet of light ale, then sat in her husband’s high chair, showing off who was in charge here.

“It looks like you have coerced this haughty þræll to work”, said Tórmóður playfully.

“Indeed. He proves to be quite capable and helpful, after all.”

“He certainly looks in better shape.”

“You feed him too much”, said Ólafur. “You’re spoiling him.”

She set a cold stare on the man, feeling anger rising in her belly. Who was he to be judgemental with her? She was the mistress and did what she wanted in her own estate, as small as it was.

“Is it of your concern?”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded with insolence, and she didn’t try to suppress the angry twitch that twisted her lips. Hveðrungr ate a lot, that was true, but he also accepted to work hard and tolerably keep in line, and she fed him generously because she needed his strength.

Tórmóður chuckled lightly.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” she asked blatantly.

Ólafur laughed in his goblet.

“Straight to the point, that one.”

Her brother smiled, and cleared his throat.

“You need help on the farm. You can’t stay all alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

Her tone was dry, sharp. Angry. He smiled again. A forced smile.

“These slaves of yours, they’re growing old. The haughty one will be sold come spring. As for Kolfinnr and Arni –“

She felt a pang of hurt mixed with dread, for she knew what he was about to say.

“– if you want them to stay, you need a husband.”

That was it.

A widow without fortune wasn’t influent enough to keep warriors on her good reputation only.

He had come to make a proposal for Ólafur. Not caring for politeness, she moved her chin towards the man.

“Who? Him?”

Ólafur took a sharp inhale, but she cut him before he started speaking.

“Your brother has been dead for less than a month, and you are already longing to fuck his widow?”

“Look, Eyð, it is not like that.”

“Really?”

“I can see how hard you work. You’ve been an excellent wife to my brother. Such a woman shouldn’t be wasted by marrying out of the family.”

She stood, outraged, clenching her fists at her sides.

“I have been an excellent wife to your brother because I loved him. I have no affection for you, Ólafur. Your brother never mocked me, never lectured me as you just allowed yourself to.”

Her voice was trembling with rage, and angry tears were already stinging her eyes. She would have to go out to hide them. Ólafur’s insolent smirk made it worse. She took two deep breaths to try and calm down.

“I’ll never marry you. I could never marry someone I don’t respect”, she managed to say firmly. “Feel free to have another drink, then leave. I have work to do.”

Orla tried to stop her as she rushed to the threshold, but she jerked her hand away.

“Mistress, where –“

“Leave me be!” she cried, and strode towards the eastern cliff. It was her favourite spot, high above the sea, where only sky and water could be seen. There, she felt as if she was suspended between the clouds and the waves. She marched rapidly, filled with fury, blinded by angry tears.

Why couldn’t they let her mourn in peace?

Couldn’t they wait some time?

She felt helpless.

She didn’t want Ólafur, whom she despised, yet she knew her brother was right. A married woman was respected, but a widow with no wealth was easy prey.

As she reached the top of the cliff, she was hit by a gust of wind. Dark clouds brought by the wind were weighing like a cover over her head, offering her no respite. The slate-grey waves crashed on the rocks underneath her feet. The very sea that had engulfed her husband, leaving her alone and at the mercy of the men of her family.

“Frigga, help me!” she begged, her face turned to the sky. “Great Frigga, please protect me!”

She searched the dark clouds, looking for a sign. In vain. Nothing could show her that the Goddess was listening, that anyone knew how much she suffered. She was alone with her sorrow. She fell on her knees, rocking herself, crying, filled with resent.

She hated the world.

Hated being alone, hated being a woman, compelled to do as others wanted.

Tòrmoður had chosen her child’s name in her place. He had forced her to bring the sly slave here. Now he wanted to decide for her once more, to make her marry an unworthy man, to put a stop to her mourning. No. No, she couldn’t allow it.

She yelled at the sky, cursing the damned clouds that were as dark as her thoughts.

She yelled at the sea, wailing insults to the waves that had stolen her child’s father.

She yelled and yelled until her throat was sore and she could only sob bitterly, curled on herself, laying the grass, sinking and drowning in her sorrow, until she felt hollow and numb.

At some moment, a hand shook her shoulder, and she cracked an eye open. Her eyes stung and burned, and a headache pounded at her temples. Grunting with effort, she rolled on her back and covered her forehead with her palm.

“Mistress, are you alright?”

No, she wasn’t. Wasn’t it obvious?

In the darkness of twilight, she could see Ronan crouching next to her, looking at her in concern.

“It is almost night, you must come home. Don’t stay here.”

She must have dozed off out of exhaustion. She sat, propping herself on one arm.

Hveðrungr was standing a few steps away, holding the reins of her horse in a hand.

“Why did you bring the horse? I can perfectly walk.”

Her voice sounded hoarse, almost like a croak, and she tentatively touched her sore throat with her fingertips.

“Orla wanted us to. She was worried you wouldn’t come back.”

She sighed heavily and stood on wobbly legs. She felt tired, so tired. She stiffened, though, wanting to appear strong and undefeated, for she was the mistress and the new slave needed strong discipline.

Ronan waved his hand to the þræll, and the man approached with the horse, stopping just next to her. He gave her a grim look and, before she could do anything but yelp in indignation, lifted her by the waist to sit her on the saddle. She slapped his hand.

“Do not touch me, or I’ll chop your hands off”, she hissed, and the glint of hatred in his eyes sent shivers down her spine.

“In other circumstances, you would deeply regret this”, he growled.

Oh, no. She was not to let him intimidate her. She hadn’t strongly expressed her refusal to Ólafur to have the slave try to threaten her. She pressed her lips firmly and gripped the horse’s mane in a hand to steady herself as she bent right over his face, her teeth bared.

“I don’t care who you were, but in the present circumstances, you are my þræll –“ and she caught his collar between two fingers to give him a reminder of his condition.

She and Hveðrungr both immediately hissed in pain as a strong burst of heat came from the shackle, and he took a step back. The horse neighed and pawed nervously.

“What was that?” croaked Ronan.

“Yes, what happened?” she asked too.

Her heart was racing and her fingers stung under the burn, although no marking was visible. This was – unnatural. As she lifted her eyes to the man, she could see he had pulled the fabric of his sleeves upon his fingers and slipped it between the shackle and the skin of his neck to protect it from the contact of the collar.

“Nothing that can matter to you, mistress”, he snarled again, mocking her, his eyes full of malevolence, and she distinctively heard his voice in her mind, a threatening growl that was meant to frighten her.

What?

She scowled at him, and his insolent, mad smirk ignited her anger like a spark in dry hay.

Clenching her jaw in anger, she spurred her horse and marched on him, making him move to avoid being hit by the animal. Had he not side-stepped, she would have had her mount crush him under its hooves, for the man was undoubtedly infuriating. How did he dare touching her like that, without her permission, even if it was for helping her? How did he dare speaking to her like that? Like he was the master and she was his inferior.

Maybe Ólafur was right. Maybe she was spoiling him. She would have to punish him.

“No meal for you tonight, þræll”, she flung above her shoulder. “You’ll eat when you show deference.”

She shivered at his mirthless laughter in her back.

“Then you shall let me starve to death, mistress!”

***

Sitting in darkness on his bed of straw, his back to the planks separating the cow shed from the house, Hveðrungr was thinking. He hadn’t been brought food, just as she had threatened. She stuck to what she said. Good. He hated spineless souls who changed their minds as weather vanes in the wind.

The woman – should he call her a girl, for she was very young? – shouldn’t have been able to feel the magic in his collar, let alone bring it out. The skin of his neck was still uncomfortable, slightly burning. What had happened when she touched his collar was strange. Strange, and also reassuring. Maybe, maybe, she would be of use at last.

He would have to keep an eye on her, for her sorrow was making her drift away. It was amazing, really, that mortals had such a capacity of growing attached to others, conscious as they were of their own fragility. Her mourning seemed so sincere that it almost touched him, had he cared for such ephemeral creatures. She had stood fierce against her brother and the man he presented to her, out of loyalty to her dead husband. Out of pride, too, for he overheard her and knew that she greatly despised the man.

She was reluctant to trust him either, yet she expected him to protect her. Why would she tell him where to find an axe if she didn’t? And yet, he had played his part, standing behind her, showing her she could rely on him. She was wary of him, and he would have to be patient. Very patient.

His frustration was growing though, trapped as he was on that wind-battered rock. His brother hadn’t come for him. It had been over a month now since he had been caught and chained by the reeking Alban witch. The old hag had been helped by the very Elves he had been visiting, unreliable bunch of sly creatures that they were. She had borne a large grudge against him since she found him between her daughter’s legs. The girl had be more than welcoming, though.

He knew little about Miðgardian magic, only that it often required blood-magic. Had the witch used blood to tie him up and shackle him? Her daughter’s blood, perhaps?

Possible.

Probable.

The girl had bled, after all, when he had taken her. A virgin’s blood was very powerful, anyone knew that.

Would he need blood-magic to release his bindings? He didn’t think so, for the widow had felt the magic in his collar, when she displayed her little show of power, acting like the mistress, claiming he was hers.

A surprisingly sensitive creature.

The thought made him smirk. There were other ways to find out how sensitive she was. She wasn’t ugly, after all, and he had to convince her to free him before spring.

It might not even be a chore, he thought to himself, chuckling with mischief. But for now, he would have to wait. She was too busy mourning her moron of a husband.

He bent his legs and rested his forearms on his knees, palms opened to the ceiling. He closed his eyes and moved his fingers, trying to reach for his seiðr, like every night. At first, nothing had ever happened, and in the first days he found himself choking with a lingering panic that clawed at him like a tight collar made of brambles. And then, as the days went on, he felt it, a tiny spark of heat deep inside him, too fragile to bloom into a flame, but still present, like a flicker of hope. And he had nurtured the thought that it would grow, day after day, until it was strong enough to allow him to free himself from whatever witchcraft trapped him.  He had been struck with bitter delusion when it was evident that he could just raise this tiny swirl of heat and nothing more. That if he trained too much, he exhausted what little of magic that was left in him and couldn’t feel anything in the following days.

He exhaled deeply and emptied his mind of any thought but his seiðr, willing it to flow in his veins, calling for it.

Nothing.

He took a deep breath in, and on the exhale, tried again.

And failed again.

There was nothing to be felt.

He shook his head in despondency, before catching himself again.

Someone was moving inside the house. He could hear light steps on the planked floor, in this late hour, while everyone was sleeping.

It brought a smile to his lips.

She was a curious little creature, indeed.

Chapter Text

Kate Bush, "Running Up That Hill"

IV.

The baby slept, at last. He had cried for several hours again, making her patience grow thin. The house was silent, except for the snores coming from Arni’s bench. Eyð felt exhausted. The day had been trying, and she longed for slumber and its complete surrender to unconsciousness, but her thoughts didn’t allow her to sleep.

She was beyond furious with her brother for trading her to Ólafur, whom she despised. The man wasn’t worthy of her and would never acknowledge it, self-confident as he was.

She felt broken by the emotional tide that she had allowed to submerge her. She had let her sorrow and anger flow over her for hours, until she dozed off in the wet grass and her slaves shook her awake.

This thought brought her back to what had happened with the þræll’s collar.

The sudden burst of heat that had burned both her fingers and the skin of his neck.

Now that she thought about it, she was almost certain that she had seen the collar emanating light. She could only think of one explanation to that.

Sorcery.

The very thought made her skin crawl, and she rubbed her arms to flatten the goose bumps.

Who was this man?

Turning on her back in her bed, she decided that she needed answers. She sat with caution – now was not the time to disturb her son – and put on her working breeches and woollen tunic before sneaking out of the house and entering the cow shed by the side door, protecting the feeble flame of the grease lamp with her hand, wincing as the door grated.

She couldn’t see much, at first, waiting for her eyes to adjust in the darkness of the byre. She only could hear the heavy breathing of the cows and a hoof occasionally pawing the floor. After a few moments, she walked with caution to the back of the shed, where the þræll had his straw bed.

She couldn’t tell if he too was awake, until she saw him sitting in the straw, his back to the planked wall separating the shed from the house, his long legs stretched before him. She could only make out his tall frame, for his face was hidden in the shadow.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a nocturnal visit, young mistress?”

The low hiss he used to stress the last word with arrogance made her stomach churn. This was a huge error. She had endangered herself by coming here alone and unarmed, when there was an axe in the shed he could use use to harm her – if not kill her. She swallowed hard, thinking of the dagger she had left under her pillow, but tried her best to sound confident and calm.

“Tell me about your capture.”

“At this hour of the night? Are you so desperate for conversation?”

“Who shackled you? Why?” She hesitated a moment, then murmured, “Who are you?”

He laughed bitterly through his nose.

“Well, you are very curious, aren’t you?”

Insolent as ever. This man was challenging her each and every day. Her anger was exhausted for today, so she answered calmly.

“You are my þræll, and I have every right to ask such things.”

“I am in thraldom for now”, he replied dryly, his tone ominous.

He let a silence stretch, and as she wouldn’t move, motioned for her to sit. An aristocratic gesture of his elegant hand, as an invitation. She frowned, hesitant, then decided to oblige. She chose to ignore his smirk as she sat cross-legged in the straw and used an upside-down bucket to rest her grease lamp on it. The tiny flame was enough to reveal Hveðrungr’s pale face and penetrating look.

“I was travelling in Alba. I had unfinished business with the Elves, and was a few days about to attend an audience with their king.”

“Elves?”

He personally knew Elves? The very spirits of the land that people honoured with sacrifices every season? And he had business with them? What kind of business could anyone have with Elves, moreover with their king, apart from making sure of their benevolence?

“Are you going to cut each and every of my sentences, or are you going to listen?”

She blinked at being rebuffed, feeling like she was a little girl chastised by her father. Taken aback, she didn’t even know what to retort.

“A woman – a völva – a witch, in fact – offered me hospitality. It turned out her daughter was very welcoming, too. And a bit too loud, for her mother quickly figured out she was in my bed.”

Eyð swallowed.

Of course, he would add debauchery to arrogance, abhorrent man that he was.

“Be as it may, I woke up shackled in the morning.” He sighed bitterly before adding, “Deprived of my seiðr.”

She blinked even more and opened her lips to speak, before changing her mind, not wanting to be rebuked for speaking again.

“You may ask your question”, he said, his tone haughty and patronizing, which she tried to ignore.

“Your seiðr? You are a seiðrmaðr?”

He chuckled darkly.

“This is what you came for, right? To know about my collar? To know what happened today when you touched it?”

“Yes.”

“Then think, young mortal. You are not stupid. You already know who I am, you just have to admit this truth.”

She frowned, still staring at him in the dim light, trying again to push the insult aside. She stared at his pale face and green eyes, sometimes full of hatred, anger or malevolence, now glinting with a mix of arrogance and mischief, as if he was enjoying watching her working through a difficult riddle.

“You are royalty”, she offered.

“Why, it is obvious, isn’t it? A child would have figured it.”

She chewed her bottom lip, frowning in concentration, her tiredness making it difficult to focus.

He said that he was endowed with magic, and the collar the witch had put on his neck deprived him from his powers.

He was strong, very strong, and much more enduring than any other men she knew. He ate more and slept less than anyone she knew, too.

He teased and mocked anyone, never caring for the consequences.

The name he gave – Hveðrungr – and – did he just call her mortal?

Her eyes widened as the truth flashed in her mind, and she jolted upright, breathing heavily, taking a few steps of distance with – with the – god?

“It’s not possible.”

He chuckled once more.

“That’s what I thought when I found the collar around my neck.”

“Could you – could you – be –“

“Say it, mortal.”

***

He easily faked surprise at seeing her entering the cow shed. He knew she would come asking questions, both out of curiosity and because she desperately needed to show she was the one in command at the farm.

He had briefly thought of seducing her only a few minutes ago, but her sight brought back the indignant treatment he had been submitted to. He managed to look surprised, but he didn’t bother not to sound arrogant, either. He certainly wanted her to learn her place. Enough with those Miðgardian crawling creatures.

Only anger prevented him from dying of boredom.

This place was so much – beyond him. Everything was reeking of cattle, shit and grime. The mortals he was surrounded with were so pathetic, struggling for power and survival. Her brother, the chieftain, had tried to act with authority, until he saw him radiate authority, and had him beaten for that, just before the feast where he gave him as a prize to his sister.

Said sister was slowly realizing that she was alone and had no allies apart from a couple of old, wrinkly, faithful slaves. That she was easy prey, just about to be devoured by fierce predators that men could be.

She already feared him, and kept distant, not even bothering to understand why she stayed away from him. Maybe she was the more reasonable being of the household, after all. The old slaves treated him like an equal. The two men who plundered her cellar treated him like a slave, a hostage at best. They needed to be punished for it.

He watched her straighten her spine and try to control her voice, trying not to laugh cruelly at her. And then, she finally asked the right question.

Who are you?

He hadn’t entirely lied, three weeks ago, when he had given that name, one of his many names. He had played with her, enjoying watching her eyes widen in fearful surprise. Now, it was time for her to fully understand who he was.

And as he watched her struggle with her thoughts, looking like a fish out of the water, with her wide eyes and her open mouth constantly gasping – though she might not be as dumb as the two cellar-looters – he couldn’t help smiling, feeling greatly amused as her eyes shone with the truth she found.

“Say it, mortal”, he teased her. “Say my name.”

He could hear her gulp.

“Loki”, she breathed.

He grinned mischievously.

“Well done.”

“How is it possible? How could you possibly be here, of all places?” she murmured again.

“Miðgardian magic might be stronger than I thought.”

He clenched his jaw. He had underestimated the witch, which had proved to be a huge mistake.

“I’ll have to remedy to it”, he sighed for himself.

“How?”

“By killing all those who wronged me, of course.”

She gasped loudly, taking a few more steps away from him.

“Do you have anything to feel guilty about?” he purred, revelling on her fear. At last. It felt too long since humans didn’t fear him properly.

“I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have struck you – had I known, I –“

Now, he laughed cruelly.

“I’m not planning on killing you, young mistress.”

He expected her to sigh in relief, but her breath was still shallow.

“Why?”

“Because you felt the seiðr in the collar.”

Her eyes widened more, if possible. She silently gasped for air, and he rolled his eyes.

Norns. Pathetic creatures that Miðgardians were.

“Breathe”, he sayed, with a lazy gesture that showed he was impossibly bored.

She let a shaky exhale, then inhaled with difficulty. And again.

“What do you want?”

He pursed his lips, as if considering the question.

“First of all, I want to sleep in the house.”

“No”, she squeaked.

He stood and straightened, bringing himself to full height, and took a step to the woman, then another, walking slowly, making sure to look ominous and submit her with fear. She slowly walked back, her eyes never leaving his, until he cornered her against the wall.

“I don’t trust you”, she managed. “I don’t want to have you inside my house at night.”

“Would you treat a god as a slave?”

Uncertainty flashed in her eyes, but she gulped and blinked, and then he could read something else. Strength.

“Slaves sleep in the cowshed. Only worthy slaves sleep in the house.”

She breathed her answer, as if she was shy – or afraid – to say it out loud, saying it all the same to give the illusion she was in charge. He wanted to glare at her, but could only laugh at her insolence, and she narrowed her eyes in defiance.

“I’m afraid you didn’t understand my words”, he purred.

“I did. Earn the right to sleep near the firepit. Until that, you’ll stay in here. An unlocked door is all I grant you.”

“How very generous of you, mistress”, he laughed. “Ólafur was right to say you’re spoiling me.”

At the mention of the man, she scowled, her shoulders suddenly tense.

“You won’t tell anyone who I am”, he drawled.

“Why?”

“Because I’m saying so.”

He watched her intently, looming over her, and a violent shiver shook her.

“How could I conceal what I know now?”

“Be smart”, he purred, a thin smile on his lips.

“If I manage to set you free –“

“When you manage”, he corrected, and she tightly shut her eyes, obviously feeling utterly trapped. His grin widened.

“I don’t even know how to”, she pleaded. “When I manage to open the shackle”, she said cautiously, “will you kill me?”

He straightened, taking a step back.

“I won’t. You have my word.”

She gave him a distrustful look, and he could practically hear her thoughts. You are the God of Lies, said her eyes.

“Serve me, help me to remove the collar, and I shall reward you with your life. And your son’s, too.”

She shivered once more.

“Then we have to settle on an arrangement.”

This was getting interesting. The girl had nerve and managed to keep defying him in spite of his threats. What was she about to propose? He raised an eyebrow, smiling politely to show her he was disposed to hear her, and she swallowed in nervousness.

“We’ll continue this role play. You will call me ‘mistress’, and I will continue to call you Hveðrungr. I don't want to shame you by revealing your degradation to Arni and Kolfinnr. You will play the part of the slave, and I will have to punish you when you are getting too insolent.”

“Punish me? I’m a god”, he chuckled, pushing aside the thought that she cared about his dignity.

“You will be deprived of food. I can’t beat you, can I? You would kill me right away.”

“Now you are right.”

She nodded.

“And I’ll manage to find a way and remove your collar, and help you to get your magic back. But in order to maintain this illusion, you’ll sleep in here. The others wouldn’t understand if I let you sleep in the skáli when you’ve been nothing but insolent with me.”

The girl lowered her eyes and murmured shyly, “Even if I must acknowledge that you help me very much, you are too restive to be allowed inside the house without raising suspicions.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. He despised the byre, the heavy, stupid animals, their smell. Even if he despised the mortals too, their company was at least tolerable.

“What do I have to do to earn a place in the house, mistress?”

“Behave. Earn my trust. Be worthy.”

This was the final straw. He had shown much more benevolence than she deserved. Forgetting all patience, he leaped on her, his hand around her throat, slamming her back and her head against the wall, filled with a dark sense of pleasure at seeing tears of terror in her wide eyes. He didn’t squeezed his fingers, though. That is, not so much as to strangle her, but just enough to make her wheeze and breathe with difficulty. She gripped his wrist with both hands, but there was no mean she could free herself from his hold.

“I am. A god”, he hissed with feigned calmness. “I do not have to be worthy of anything.”

She wriggled and gasped desperately, and he released his grasp, trapping her against the wall with his body to keep her in his power a few more moments, his nose to her temple, inhaling her scent. She smelled of the thyme that grew in the meadows, which she used in the soft soap she made.

“Do you understand, mortal?”

She nodded frantically, her breath shallow.

“You shall show reverence from now on.”

She turned her face to give him a pleading look.

“Speak.”

“Please, please, let me put a show of being the mistress. It’s already difficult enough with my husband’s warriors. But when I speak alone with you, I promise to show respect. Only to you.”

He couldn’t help but grin in satisfaction, and drew back to release her.

“See? It wasn’t that hard.”

And he let her flee.

Chapter Text

Of Monsters and Men, Little Talks

V.

The girl was unbearably stubborn.

Loki had delighted in her fear the days that followed her discovering his true name and nature. She kept away from him. He caught her glancing at him, only to watch her turn away before their eyes met. He could never see her alone, for she seemingly always needed to be assisted by Orla in each and every task she did, and she only ever sent him to work in the farthest buildings of the farm.

But he played his part, working along with Ronan, helping Eyð without being asked when she was carrying heavy charges in spite of her alarmed looks, being reasonably insolent with her.

And as they entered winter, it seemed that his temperance calmed her down and they came to a sort of tacit agreement. She fed him as much as he needed and tolerated his temper as long as he was making himself useful.

He could see she was sinking in her affliction, though, and the shorter days surely aggravated her distress. She looked exhausted, bearing all the weight of the estate on her frail shoulders, kept away from sleep by her wailing child, unsupported in her own house by her late husband’s warriors.

Not that he pitied her, no.

He was far above such feelings for a mortal. Moreover with a mortal who thought she was endowed with authority upon him.

But still, it made him feel a pang of something strange when he considered her situation.

She let him take his meals in the house, near the fire. But he would still sleep with the cows, even if she didn’t barred the door anymore, which was an improvement. She kept him waiting for what he had asked, probably to convince herself that she could decide of what she did with him.

Some days, she totally ignored him. Well, those days, she ignored anyone, even her son, until Orla brought him to her.

She often cried at nights. She had nightmares that woke her up and didn’t allow her to rest, and she was now sporting dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks emaciated with weariness.

This wasn’t good.

He needed her to shake out of her grief, to help him to remove his collar, to set him free, and she was doing the contrary, withdrawing into herself, sometimes sitting apathetically watching in the air for hours.

Some other days, she managed to put on a brave face and do her share of the work, but it didn’t fool him. It didn’t fool anyone.

No, he didn’t pity her.

But she had been kind to him, though.

She had mended and washed his tunic and trousers – the ones he was wearing when he was taken, a very nice tunic made of fine wool and comfortable black trousers he favoured during his travels. She even had knitted socks and mittens for him, and he wore them gladly, though the cold didn’t bother him so much. She had made these clothes with care, making sure they fitted him, and even used dyed fine wool to sew a shirt, asking him what colour he preferred. Orla gave her an incredulous look that time, but she was oblivious of it. And he had picked green, of course. When she secretly joined him in the darkness of the cowshed at night to give him the fine, warm tunic, she murmured that it was her gift to a god, made to earn his benevolence, and he had agreed to protect her.

Sometimes, he wondered why he had given his consent, and felt angry with himself.

Wasn’t it proof that the collar made him weak?

Why did he genuinely thank her when she handed him a bowl of steaming porridge, a loaf of bread? Wasn’t she just fulfilling the basic part of their agreement, feeding him near a warm fire in exchange for his work?

And yet, save this one time when she sneaked out of the house to make her offering, she stubbornly avoided to speak to him or to be alone with him. Stubbornly avoided to look at his shackle, never mentioning it, never trying to touch it. It had been two more weeks and nothing significant had occurred. He felt like he was about to die of boredom.

He couldn’t improve with his magic, only feeling it deep inside him, still feeling it out of reach. He scrutinised the skies and called Heimdall and Thor, yelled in the air, never receiving any answer. When Ronan asked him what he was doing, he condescended to tell him it was like a prayer, as he asked the gods to help him. He felt like a fool that day, and stopped calling the two gods. The collar was seemingly stronger than he thought, for it must conceal his presence to the Watchman. The mere thought depressed him.

He was alone. The girl was of no help, and his frustration increased.

***

Ásgeir was swimming.

She could see him from the cliff she stood on, gracefully playing in the swell, plunging and coming back to the surface. She could hear his mighty laughter through the sound of the crashing waves. He was happy, up there in the open sea. The sun was bright and the waves shone, blue and green under its rays. It was a merry day, and the beauty of the landscape combined with the pure joy of seeing her husband made her chest swell with unbridled happiness, and she allowed herself to giggle.

It was comforting, to hear him laugh, to know that he enjoyed his new life.

It alleviated her grief. She could almost forget she had been mourning for weeks.

He didn’t suffer. In fact, he seemed perfectly adapted to this life.

“Eyð!” he called, waving his arm to her. Calling her.

“Come and join me”, he cried again.

She took a step forward, her skirt unfurled by the wind, loose strands of hair whipping her cheeks.

Yes. Yes, she would dive and join him. And they would be together again.

She took another step, her foot hovering above the emptiness, and felt light-headed because of the height.

She woke with a loud gasp, sitting upright in a jolt.

It was only a dream.

She was not alone in her bed, but little Ásgeir didn’t replace his father. It was nothing like sleeping with his strong arms around her.

Her forehead and shoulders were covered with sweat, and she shivered in the cold room.

Tucking her knees to her chest, she circled her shins with her arms and cried.

***

The days were getting shorter. It was often rainy and snowy, and she stayed home, spinning wool, weaving fabric or decorative braids, nalbinding socks and hats with Orla for the household. She even knitted for Hveðrungr, even if he didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. The man – no, he was no man – had taken the warm socks, thanking her flatly, as if he didn’t care at all that she spent time working for him. She felt a pang of pain that day, angry with herself because she had no reason at all to care about it – about him, frightening, infuriating and insolent as he was.

Because there was no need to deny it: she was afraid of him. She made her possible not to be alone with him. He had threatened her, feigned to strangle her. Orla, perceptive as she was, quickly confronted her to ask what was wrong. She eluded her questions, giving vague answers about the lack of sleep, the bad weather, the darkness, carefully avoiding to reveal anything about Loki’s – no, Hveðrungr’s – identity, just as she had been told. 

But she needed his strength for all the farm work, and therefore needed to propitiate the god. She carefully made a tunic for him. She intended to make a fine cloth, and thus invited him to choose a colour he liked, nodding in silence when he asked for dark green. It was difficult to obtain this colour. It could be made with pine needles – which couldn’t be found in the Føroyar – or with sorrel, which grew commonly on the island.

Orla didn’t understand why she would use sorrel leaves to dye yarn for the haughty þræll. She said it was a waste, that sorrel was a good food to prevent weakness, that the þræll surely liked fine clothes but would never be grateful to her. Eyð nodded in silence, fearing that the old slave could be right, hoping she could prove her wrong.

She skilfully weaved a supple diagonal twill with the finest wool she had, then dyed the fabric in boiling water with the sorrel leaves. The result was quite pleasing to the eye and she hoped it would placate the Dark god.

“Why do you persist in spending fine matter for him?” chided Orla as Eyð hung the piece of cloth to dry in the wind.

She considered the green fabric a few moments before answering. Could she say she housed a god? That she housed the Dark god, the god of Chaos? Could she say she was scared he might kill them all in a tantrum? No, she had promised to hide his identity. And in spite of her weariness, she had to acknowledge that he made efforts to behave.

“He is a prince. If he seeks revenge once he is free, I don’t want to find myself anywhere near his sword.”

This was half-truth.

“Mmmh. He has a pretty face, too”, croaked the old woman.

“That’s petty”, she snapped back in indignation. “You know I’m mourning. If you are jealous of his fine clothes, then I can weave a soft fabric for your old skin. There is no need to be mean.”

The old woman blushed under the reprimand and pliantly bent her head.

Eyð gave a thought at Orla’s comment about Hveðrungr’s beauty. He had bright green eyes and elegant high cheekbones, for sure, but he always wore a hard and haughty mask that she couldn’t very much call beautiful. Maybe if he smiled –

She shook herself out of her ridiculous musing. As a god, he was undoubtedly impressive and fearsome. That much she could say, and it was the most important thing to be kept in memory.

Yet, very much willing to earn his indulgence, she carefully sewed the shirt with small and meticulous stitches, making sure it was a very fine garment, and stealthily snuck out to the byre one night to make her offering to the god.

He stood when she pushed the door, and she walked to him, stopping at a respectful distance, bending her head and elevating the folded shirt to him with shaking hands, her heart racing and her breath shallow.

“With all my respect and devotion, this is my offering to you, Loki, god of Chaos. I beg you to accept it, in exchange of your protection for my son and me.”

She carefully avoided to look at him, her eyes lowered in obedience, and kept the garment high until he picked it from her hands. She dared to cast a glance at him as he inspected the shirt, appreciating the fineness of her weaving between his thumb and forefinger.

“Granted”, he sighed, and she bowed gratefully before escaping his presence.

Despite of her relief, her sleep was agitated that night, filled with dreams of gleaming green eyes and curious seals.

A few days later, as the weather was more clement, she covered her baby with warm clothes and walked to the shore, in need of fresh air.

The sea was quite calm that day, small waves washing over the pebbles. The sun shone through the clouds, illuminating both the grass and the water with large patches of light. Just like in her dream.

“See how beautiful it is”, she said to her son, pointing to the rays of lights, the boy watching her hand and smiling to her.

As she turned her gaze to the sea, as often, she spotted something moving in the water.

A stocky seal-bull was emerging from time to time, looking at the beach. Looking at her. Its damp coat shone under the sunrays. There was no defiance in his eyes, only curiosity. And then it dived, reappearing almost on the shore. When it turned its head to look behind – towards the open sea – she could see that its coat wore a large patch of dark red hair behind his head, down to his neck.

Just like Á sgeir’s hair when it was wet.

The thought hit her like a slap in the face.

She watched her son, who looked so much like his father with his red hair and warm brown eyes.

Could it be – could it be –

She gulped, and took a sharp inhale.

She had dreamt of this. No doubt the gods had sent the dream to her.

She came again the following day, and the next.

And the sea-bull was always here, seemingly waiting for her.

She was sure of it now. Ásgeir was a kopamaðr. He had shifted his skin for a seal-skin when he had drowned, and had made his way to the island he lived in. He hadn’t left her – hadn’t abandoned her.

For the first time in almost two months, she felt hope.

And at the end of the third day, she decided to talk about it to Orla. The six of them were gathered in the skáli, Orla and her spinning wool, Arni and Kolfinnr playing hnefatafl, Ronan and Hveðrungr – as she kept calling him – mending tools. She told Orla about what she saw on the beach, and about her suppositions. The old woman watched her with wide eyes at first, then she gave her a fearful look.

“It is not unheard of”, commented Ronan.

“Don’t go to that beach again, Eyð”, Orla warned, “or the seal might drag you and drown you into the sea.”

A sarcastic laughter echoed the old servant’s words and Eyð turned around, spotting Hveðrungr sitting on the floor, seemingly obediently mending a bucket as he had been told. He pointed his tool to the two women, his green eyes gleaming with insolence.

“Seals are only seals. Mortals can’t shift their shape into a seal. There is no magic in men.”

“How could you know?” croaked Orla.

“I know is all, old hag.”

Orla retorted something snarky, and they started bickering. Eyð kept silent, faking to consider his words. He knew what he said, by self-experience. It was the more reasonable answer. Cruel as he was, he might be right.

But still –

“My husband disappeared in the sea. What if he –“

Hveðrungr laughed again, interrupting her, mocking her, and she felt flooded with anger.

“No, little mistress. Your husband drowned. He died stupidly like the moron he was.”

Without a second thought, forgetting both her wariness and who he was, she rushed to him and slapped in across the face, with force, but his head barely jerked. The house fell silent at once, the three other men ceasing their chatting to watch the scene. Her jaw and fists clenched, she watched as the god stood up to his full height, having to crane her neck to look him in the eye. The bitter twitch in his jaw and the mad light in his eyes made a cold shiver creep down her spine. When his lips curled into a lopsided smile, she suddenly felt as if ice was flooding her veins.

Frigga, help me.

She shouldn’t have done that.

But she had every right to punish an insolent slave, and he had forgotten his role. It was the only thing she could do right now, for letting him mocking the master would have been interpreted as a sign of weakness. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, mimicking his haughty demeanour.

“I forbid you to speak of my husband, þræll.”

She used the word as an insult as well as a reminder of his role play. But her voice was not as steady as she intended, and it made her all the more uneasy under his stare.

“Your husband. Was. A moron”, he hissed darkly, detaching the words, looming over her.

He was unbearably intimidating and it took all her strength not to walk back.

“Who wears their chainmail on a boat unless they want to be dragged to the bottom of the sea?”

“You didn’t know him”, she cried, standing her ground. “You didn’t know him and I forbid you to say a single thing about him.”

He gave her a thin, cruel smile, and she knew he was delighted with his ruthlessness. He answered in a low, deep voice, drawling and dripping with resentment.

“I felt immensely happy when the wave washed him overboard. It gave me a great sense of satisfaction. I shall not mourn the idiot, and neither should you.”

She moved to slap him again, but he caught her wrist in his long fingers before she could touch him, squeezing hard, eliciting a cry of pain from her.

“Let go of her”, cried Ronan, and Orla rushed to push him without effect.

What were Arni and Kolfinnr waiting for?

Spurred by her instinct, she kicked Hveðrungr in the shin and as he released her wrist, she walked a few steps back, taking her distance.

“Deal with him”, she demanded, “take him to the sheep pen and bolt the door.”

She didn’t want him near the house. Better lock him up far from her and from her baby.

“Not to the cowshed?” asked Arni.

Her gaze spun to the man and her only reply to his questioning was a cold stare. Arni stood up with a reluctant sigh and came behind Hveðrungr. The þræll moved at the shove in his shoulder, giving her one last insolent gaze and smirk before he left. He enjoyed himself. He knew she was afraid of him, and his glee was all the more terrifying.

“Are you hurt, mistress?” asked Orla in a shaky voice.

She wiped her forehead with her palm, shaking her head, although her wrist hurt. She had no choice but to show off strength.

 Hveðrungr – no, Loki – was trying, even though his arrogance hadn’t worsened since he had revealed his true nature to her. Arni and Kolfinnr hadn’t stood with her until she barked her order. They weren’t reliable. Her only allies were a couple of old slaves and she couldn’t expect them to efficiently protect her son.

She felt lonely.

No, she inly corrected.

She was lonely.

Chapter Text

I meant nothing bad
I'm just excited
Please don't cry
I try to fight it
It's alright
And I was
In your arms
And you were in my arms

Bang Gang, Alright

VI.

Hveðrungr, as she kept calling him not to betray his true nature to Arni and Kolfinnr, was watching her closely. She could tell it.

He seemed to always have his eyes on her when she moved or left the place she was in. When she was sitting for a while, eating, spinning wool or weaving, he looked indifferent. But if she went outside, he followed her, always finding an excuse to look busy.

It was unsettling.

Even if she didn’t see him, she could feel his presence. And it made her all the more eager to keep her distances with him. She had long walks on her own, and at some point, she saw him – or she imagined she saw him, for when she was attentive he was nowhere to be seen.

She took the habit of going on the strand with her son, nursing him and cradling him while contemplating the waves and observing the seals. The big seal bull was always here. She never talked about it anymore, for it frightened Orla and she didn’t want to earn sarcastic comments from Hveðrungr, but she came all the same, watching the beast, secretly hoping in her heart that it could be Ásgeir, that he could be able to see his son, that he would come ashore and strip from his seal-skin to sit next to her and chat like he never left.

But it never happened.

The seal watched her from afar and surely dwelled on another beach, for she never saw it on the sand.

So she began exploring the shore, searching for its dwelling. She went to coves she had seldom walked, went to cliffs battered with waves, all in vain. The seal could also dwell on another island, of course, and swim here to tease her.

It frustrated her. It saddened her.

The month of Ýlir had begun, and the days were much shorter, but she walked and sat on the shore all the same, knowing deep inside she was avoiding to have to talk to people. Her heavy cloak sheltered her from the rain and from the snow.

One day, as she was sitting on a rock, watching the sea, holding her sleeping son in her arms, she was startled by the old dog trotting to her.

She jolted and at the sound of footsteps on pebbles, shot her head to the left, meeting the god’s green eyes.

She had been so withdrawn in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear him. She petted the dog’s head, and it waved its tail gratefully.

“I didn’t mean to scare you”, Hveðrungr – no, Loki, god of Lies – said.

She knew this was the closest to an apology she could get. But it wasn’t a cruel comment, and she nodded only to show a little respect, hesitant to tell him she was always afraid of him since she had felt his hand around her throat.

“I didn’t hear you coming.”

He gave her a pointed look, and she thought she heard his voice in her head. You spend too much time on your own. She frowned and blinked, but there was nothing but indifference in his eyes as he handed her a plate of dried meat, steaming flat bread and a bowl of butter.

“You missed lunch, mistress. You need to eat.”

Always this sharp intonation, almost a hiss, as if he arrogantly reminded her of her promise to free him from the magical collar.

She took the food, carefully placing it on the ground.

“Thank you.”

She silently turned her face to the sea, deliberately ignoring him, hoping it would encourage him to leave even though she highly doubted that it would be efficient.

The rustle of fabric and rolling pebbles told her he had seated on the ground, and she suppress an annoyed sigh. Of course. He wouldn’t leave her alone.

“Here you are”, he said in an unusually soft voice, and she lowered her eyes to find that he presented her a piece of bread with melting butter on it. She picked the bread and took a bite, controlling a satisfied moan at the taste. She hadn’t realized that she was, indeed, hungry.

As she casted a side glance, she could see he was observing her, absent-mindedly fondling the dog’s fur. The beast was curled on itself at the god’s feet.

“Why do you do this?” she asked, her mouth full.

“Because you’re harming yourself.”

She swallowed.

“Why do you care? You’re not a benevolent god, as much as I know.”

He gave her a cruel smile, his eyes glinting dangerously.

“No, I’m not.”

She took another bite.

“Let’s say I care about our agreement. I need you alive and healthy to remove this”, he added with a gesture to his collar.

Of course. He didn’t even try to lie, did he? She had hoped to get a little kindness when his purpose was only selfish. Her heart sunk like a stone in her chest.

“I wouldn’t even know how to.”

“You didn’t even tried to”, he corrected.

His tone was calm but dry, resentful.

He was right. She did her best to avoid him.

“I could try. But not right now, because of my son.”

Little Ásgeir was now sitting in her lap, and she didn’t want any harm to come to him.

“Of course.”

They kept silent a few minutes while she ate.

“Still watching the seals?” he murmured at last.

She nodded, her throat constricted. She didn’t want to talk about it with him. Not since they had fought over the subject and he had cruelly laughed at her. It also made her think that she was truly alone and couldn’t rely on anyone but the two old slaves if Hveðrungr – no, Loki – came to be a threat, which she was slightly beginning to doubt, for the man was arrogant but never crossed the line to become ominous anymore.

“We’re running out of seal grease for the lamps, we’ll have to hunt some of them.”

She shot her eyes to him, and he gave her a look of casual indifference.

“Not the large one.”

“Why not? It’s just a seal. A big one, as you pointed. It would give a large supply of grease and meat.”

“No”, she almost cried.

He let out a heavy breath.

“We already talked about it, Eyð. A seal is just a seal, no matter how curious this one seems to be.”

Now this was irritating her. She didn’t want this conversation to go that way, and she didn’t feel patient enough to tolerate his insolence today.

“Enough with your familiarity, þræll. There’s no ‘we’, and you’re not to call me by my name.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you, mistress”, and he didn’t bother hiding how contemptuous he was at pronouncing the word. “But you must be reasonable. This seal over there is an animal, whether it makes you think of your husband or not. You have to accept it.”

She gathered her son in her arms and stood, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Do not touch me”, she hissed in his face, and he let his hand go, showing it off as a gesture of good will.

“I am not your enemy”, he said again, calmly, as if to tame a restive horse.

Liar. Liar.

She was surrounded by liars and thieves in her own house, and she was not to be appeased by him. The man – no, not a man – who laughed at her, who laughed at her husband’s death. Her anger rose suddenly to a point where she was abruptly almost out of herself and could not suppress her bursting out.

“How could I – why should I – trust you, god of Lies?”, and she noticed with satisfaction that his eyes widened in shock as she stressed the word, “you’ve just admitted that you’re working for your own benefit here, just like Arni and Kolfinnr, either!”

Little Ásgeir woke and started crying at her mother’s screaming.

“I fail to see what those two have to do with me.”

His polite, impassive demeanour infuriated her all the more. She knew she scared her son, yet she had to let her anger flow and say it all.

“All you do, the whole lot of you, is emptying my cellar and planning to leave me to starve alone with only two old slaves! Don’t you even try to look like you’re innocent, like you could be ignorant of this! For this, I – “

She interrupted her yelling, choking on her anger, blinded by tears. She would be left behind, once more. Would experience more loneliness and She couldn’t help lashing out on him, and all the while holding her crying son with one arm, she hit Hveðrungr in the chest with her other fist.

“I hate you! I hate you!”

He ignored her command of not touching her and easily caught her wrist, effectively stopping her, and wrapped her in his arms. She sagged against him, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I hate you”, she whined again through her tears, her face in his chest.

He cradled her, caressing her hair.

“I know”, he murmured. “I deserved it.”

She cried and cried against him, not thinking any second of pushing him back, feeling strangely comforted by his hold. She must badly need contact to let him touch her like this. It was oddly intimate, though he was not being inappropriate, not trying to take advantage of the situation. He was holding her like a brother. Like a friend. Never maintaining too much strength to bind her but offering comfort and support. Weren’t the gods supposed to help Miðgardians? Could she really hate him for this?

She finally caught herself and drew back from him, wiping her face, and he let her go.

“I feel stupid”, she breathed, not daring to look at him.

“Don’t. You’re having a difficult time.”

She nodded weakly.

“I will back you against the two cellar-looters”, he said softly, and the term could have almost made her laugh, almost, if she allowed herself to laugh, which she didn’t since Ásgeir’s death. “But you have to take care of yourself”, he said again, tilting his head in search of her gaze. She only averted her eyes to the ground, unable to look into his green eyes. Unable to watch whatever feeling lingered in them – kindness was not to be expected of him, and she didn’t want to know if she could read compassion, or worse, pity in those clear eyes.

“Let’s go back to the farm”, he offered. “Go warm yourself by the fire. The roof of the sheephold is still leaking, I’ll go and fix it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being gentle with me. Acting as if you cared.”

She casted a glance to see he pursed his lips, slightly shaking his head as if nothing was to be said.

He kept silent.

***

He stopped his answer just in time as the motion of his head said, Isn’t it obvious? It could have passed the barrier of his teeth.

I feel concerned.

Or worst.

I care about you.

He didn’t easily let himself be touched by anyone.

But she was both so strong and so helpless, struggling an already lost fight, unwilling to let the scavengers peck at her estate, small as it was. She was eager to live and to protect her son while enduring her grief. It moved him. He might be the god of Chaos, he hadn’t a heart of stone. It was her strong will that touched him, of course. It had nothing to do with her lithe form, her long flowing hair, nor with the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

And as she cried, her face in his chest, and he held her in his arms, he allowed himself to close his eyes and lay his cheek against the crown of her head, savouring her presence and her warmth.

How long had it been since he held a woman in his arms? The last one was the witch’s daughter, but he hadn’t held her that way. And the filthy creature had led him here, as a matter of fact.

How long had it been since he held someone like this, selflessly offering attentiveness and comfort?

Later, after he had led Eyð safely to the skáli, the dog on their heels, as he was on the roof of the sheep pen and placed heavy grass clods over birch bark, therefore ensuring that the roof would be watertight, he searched his memories. In vain.

He had been held and comforted by Frigga. This much he could recall. But he couldn’t remember cradling and comforting anyone, no friend nor lover. Not even his mother.

It must be an effect of the collar. It weakened him in many ways. He bit his lower lip at the thought, angry with himself for being so soft.

When it got dark, Orla called him inside. She gave him a sheep fleece to card and he scowled at her but complied all the same, sitting next to Ronan beside the fire. The dog came to lay next to him, and he scowled at the smelly animal.

The little mistress had seemingly recovered from her distress. She was standing with her back to him, weaving on a loom. She was working swiftly and nimbly, making a squared pattern with brown and yellow wool, tightly securing the threads with a comb.

Arni and Kolfinnr were sitting, mending little things, chatting amongst them.

To a strange eye, it could have looked peaceful and domestic. But Eyð’s shoulders were tense, her eyes averted from anyone.

He could tell her posture was an act and there was something going on in her mind. He could feel it, smell it. It made him smirk. Debilitated as he was, he was still the God of Lies. He stayed put, carding the fleece he was holding between his knees, and waited patiently until she would let out whatever was brewing in her wilful mind.

When it was time for the evening meal, they all sat around the fire.

“It will be soon Jól time”, she announced. “Shall we go and feast at my brother’s?”

Her smile was perfectly polite, controlled.

He couldn’t help but feel amusement. She was indeed up to something, for she didn’t usually make the effort to smile, engulfed by her sorrow as she was.

Arni and Kolfinnr laughed and agreed. Jól was evidently a promise of abundant food and drink, and they recalled magnificent solstice feasts held by the Jarl in Tórshavn.

“Very well”, she said again with a bright smile, and Loki couldn’t help but noticing a nice dimple in her cheek. “You two shall leave tomorrow.”

The two men stopped laughing and frowned, not understanding.

“Ronan and Hveðrungr will take you to Árnafjørður with my sacrifice to the Gods, then they’ll sail straight back here. Feel free to eat your fill when you are at my brother’s farm. You are not to come back again.”

Kolfinnr stood in indignation.

“Are you casting us off? Why?

Loki stood slowly to his full height, scowling at the man until he sat back, obviously uneasy. She gave him a stern look and nodded for him to sit down again.

“I disown you”, she said solemnly, “for acting like magpies, eating my food, drinking my ale, all the while sitting around idly. Who churned this butter and made this cheese, if it’s not me? Who weaved these clothes, if it’s not me? You two are utterly useless.”

Arni cleared his throat.

“Forgive me, mistress. We gathered the sheep for you.”

“And thus provided yourselves with meat.”

“You’re being unfair.”

She stood, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Are you saying that I’m a liar? I’m warning you, Arni, the gods witness you.”

Loki bit his lips to suppress a gloating smile, for he couldn’t help admiring her. Her strength, her will, her clear eyes gleaming with authority.

She was fierce and beautiful.

“Now enjoy your meal, gather your things, and be ready to leave early in the morning.”

***

Later that night, when the household was sound asleep, he heard her tiptoeing on the planked floor.

He laid down in the straw, not wanting to let her think he could have been waiting for her, and tucked an arm behind his head just as she pushed the door open.

“Young mistress? Is something the matter?”

She was barefoot, wearing a night shift, a large shawl draped around her slender frame. For a second, he wished – he hoped – that she came for him, that she wanted to lay with him, for he certainly desired to plunge his fingers in her long, flowing hair and find out how her pale neck would feel under his lips.

She crouched next to him, but not so close as to allow him to touch her.

“I wanted to thank you for supporting me this evening. For… helping me today.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“I’ve treated you unfairly. You’ve been benevolent – kind, even – to me, and it’s been a long time since I got support.”

He swallowed and nodded, keeping silent.

“Let me try to remove your shackle.”

He gave her a long look, then sat back, moving closer to her, and she kneeled closer to him. As he presented his neck to her, he managed to keep his breath still when her fingers brushed his hair away from his skin.

“Alright, I can see the fastening.”

She gave him an unsure look.

“Now I’ll try to open it”, she whispered, and his own breath went shallow with expectation.

As soon as she put her fingers on each side of the lock, trying to unbolt it, magic burst out with a flash of light and a burning heat, just like the one time she had accidentally elicited the same reaction. He gritted his teeth to suppress a loud groan, not wanting to reveal her presence here at this hour of the night, and could see she did the same, blowing on her burned fingers.

“I’m sorry”, she whispered, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

The witch’s magic was powerful indeed. Eyð couldn’t open it was her bare hands and there was nothing she could do. He averted his gaze to hide his disappointment, not wanting to let her think she was disappointing him. The magic was too strong for her, he couldn’t blame it on her.

He frowned and shook his head at himself.

Since when did he care of hurting a mortal’s feelings?

The collar made him weak, for sure.

Chapter Text

You had to ruin it for all concerned
In a drunken punch up at a wedding

Hypocrite opportunist
Don't infect me with your poison
A bull in a china shop

Radiohead, A Punchup at a Wedding

VII.

The whole household was standing on the beach as the men were preparing their departure. Fortunately, in spite of the heavy clouds, the wind was favourable. Steady, not too strong, not forming choppy waves on the long swell of the slate-grey water.

“We will be back tomorrow, mistress”, said Ronan.

She silently nodded at the tentatively reassuring slave. Orla wished them good luck, holding the baby in her arms.

Arni and Kolfinnr looked at Eyð with unhidden resent, and she tried her best to stay calm and ignore their glares. Loki and Ronan entered the water to refloat the skúta that was stored on the beach, and she focused on them rather than on the two men who were leaving. Kolfinnr moved closer.

“Eyð, I must tell you that this is unfair. I refuse that you place Arni and me under the authority of those slaves.”

She watched him in silence, hoping to look indifferent.

“It is offensive”, he insisted.

She felt both bored and annoyed. He was waiting to argue with her and she didn’t feel like she had energy to spend in any fight right now, but she had to be strong.

“Ask yourself why I don’t trust you.”

“The sly slave has been nothing but insolent and arrogant with you since he arrived, yet you trust him more than us.”

Yes, she knew that. She knew it wasn’t logical. She couldn’t explain herself why she trusted Loki, of all people, more than the two men. Especially after he had physically intimidated her and said such horrendous things about Ásgeir. But he had also stood with her. He had shown support. He had comforted her. Kolfinnr and Arni had done none of that.

“He accepts to work in exchange for being fed, whereas you two work as little as possible, and eat a lot.”

He scoffed.

“Surely you don’t expect free men to do a slave’s work, do you?”

“Why do you always rely on him?” snarled Arni, ominously prowling to her. “Why should this slave prevail, uh?”

She swallowed hard, her stomach suddenly clenched in fear. In the corner of her eye, it seemed to her that Loki was leaving the boat and cautiously walking to the beach.

This was getting bad. Arni’s threatening posture, both their reproaches made her blood race wildly in her veins. She stiffened to control a violent shiver, her breath shallow. The man gave her a foul smile before he slyly tilted his head, opening his mouth to speak.

“One might ask if you allowed him to fuck you.”

She slapped him across the face without thinking, only realizing that the man could become truly violent when she saw his murderous look. She gasped and instinctively moved back as she saw him crouch, ready to leap on her, for she was sure he was going to strangle her.

At Arni’s first motion, she felt a commotion and fell, her back on the sand. She immediately turned on her belly to push herself up with her arms, looking at the warrior.

The man was laying on his back, his hands to Loki’s chest, the god straddling him and punching him in the face, again and again, and Arni’s arms rapidly fell lifelessly at his sides. Loki kept on hitting him.

He’s going to kill him.

She rushed, falling on her knees besides the god, and pushed him, yelling for him to stop. He turned to her with his fist raised and ready to strike, a mad look in his eyes, only to stop in his tracks and slowly lowering his arm at the realization that he had been close to hitting her, his chest heaving.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“He was going to – I said I’d protect you.”

Oh. Right.

She stood, her palm on her forehead. If her slave killed a free man, there was no way she could escape paying wergild to the family and let her Loki endure corporal punishment, or worse, be executed. This was not what she called protection.

“You can’t kill him! My situation is complicated enough, do you understand?”

He didn’t seem to take the full measure of his act, and stood slowly, watching Kolfinnr who was crouching to check on his fellow warrior.

“He’s alive, he breathes. The þræll only broke his nose”, observed the man.

She struggle to keep her composure.

“I can’t have trouble with his family, or with my brother! You can’t beat him to death! You are not free! My brother could kill you for this!”

“No, he couldn’t”, Loki calmly scoffed, an amused smile on his lips.

Now she wanted to strike him, for he was truly infuriating.

“Know your place”, she hissed in his face, reminding him of their agreement and of his role play.

He had the elegance of looking ashamed whether it was feigned or not, lowering his eyes to Arni, but it gave her no satisfaction. She shook her head angrily, her mind working swiftly.

“You leave me no choice”, she said. “I have to sail with you, or you’ll try to kill each other, and I will be in trouble.”

“Look –“, Loki sighed, trying to explain himself.

She had no more patience with him and took a large gulp of air before yelling again.

“Shut up! Shut up, for once! You’re wrong, and you only make things worse, so shut up!”

She felt truly beside herself, burning with anger, having just the minimal control not to wail offensive words to a god, limiting herself to poking in his chest with her forefinger.

“Now I have to sail, which I hate, because of you! I have to leave my farm and take my boy with me, because of you! So obey, for once, and keep your mouth shut!”

Arni grunted at their feet. She pointed at the barely conscious man.

“Now help Kolfinnr to put him in the boat while I change my clothes. I can’t go with those.”

She strode to the house, entering it and opening her chest in a fury. She couldn’t wear her working clothes, she had to look refined if she wanted to get some credit. She chose a red dress and put on a green apron adorned with a colourful braid, pinning it on her shoulders with her finest silver brooches. She put her heavy woollen cloak over it and filled a bag with some clothes and nappies for little Ásgeir.

Orla stepped into the house, the baby in her arms.

“Are you really going to go?”

“Yes, they leave me no choice. Men always have to fight stupidly. I trust you to keep the farm. You know we will sail back tomorrow.”

“But you –“

“I told you, I have no choice.”

Her voice was low, defeated. Orla gave her a compassionate look and handed the baby to her. The boy was calm and gave her a bright smile which she responded.

“See you tomorrow”, she said, and headed to the cove.

Loki took her child and handed him to Ronan, then helped her to climb aboard, and she didn’t chide him for holding her, even if she still felt irritated. They sailed in silence. Arni was conscious and kept silent. He had a broken nose and a black eye, the lid so swollen it was almost closed.  

She sat in the back of the boat and placed her son in her lap, wrapping tightly her cloak around them, Ronan taking the rudder-oar beside her. Loki was busy with the sail, checking if it was correctly adjusted, and occasionally casted glances to her. She turned to watch the sea, her jaw tight and guts clenched with anxiety.

She hated sailing.

She had always hated it, but after her husband’s death, she really dreaded being on the sea.

Her heart squeezed painfully as she watched the island they were sailing away from. Orla was standing on the shore, watching them, and she kept her eyes on her faithful slave until they turned the cliff and she disappeared from their sight.

Feeling in need to keep her mind busy, she checked if she saw the seal-bull, but it was nowhere to be seen. She felt a pang of hurt and disappointment. This was a bad day.

Averting her eyes to the bottom of the hull, she tried to keep calm and suffer in silence.

***

Loki was brooding in silence, angry with the girl.

Ingrate little creature.

He had defended her against Arni, for the man was just about to strike her when he had lunged on him, easily overcoming him. He had unleashed his frustration on the man, beating him with rage, opening the gate to his restraint resent and fury.

He could have killed him.

He wouldn’t have minded.

But she would have.

She didn’t even thank him for diverting the assault. No, she only chided him in the worst manner, yelling on him like he was dumb.

Ingrate creature, indeed.

He couldn’t tolerate that she spoke to him, a god, like this. He would have to make it very clear to her the next time he would be alone with her.

But for now, he would have to act obedient and polite, not to embarrass her in front of her brother. He very well understood that it was all a role play, that even if she didn’t know what a stage was, she was an actress performing for people.

Her exhaustion showed, but she kept performing, and he couldn’t help being impressed by her strong will.

He casted a glance at her. She was cradling her sleeping son, caressing his back through his clothes, focused on him. At first, she kept her face towards the cove and the farm, then towards the black cliffs. After some time, she seemed to lose any interest on the sea, and waited in silence.

No one talked, and apart from the hull slicing the waves and the sail seldom flapping in the wind, there was no sound in the boat.

Arni, Kolfinnr and he were observing each other. Ronan kept casting worried glances at the three of them, obviously preoccupied that they could fight during the voyage. He gave him a slight smile and a reassuring nod. He had come to tolerate the man – it would have been preposterous to say he appreciated him, let alone liked him, for he benevolently condescended to work with him and talk to him, which was more than an old human slave could expect from a god. The old man didn’t know of his true nature, of course, but he treated him with a mix of fear and deference, and had but dared to ask him if he was a prince. He had to bite his lips not to bark in laughter when he had nodded and the old man’s eyes bulged in respect and awe.

When they finally landed in Árnafjørður, he folded the sail with Ronan while the two cellar-looters beached the boat. The girl seemed to emerge from a torpor, and he extended his hand to her, silently offering his help. She accepted it, avoiding eye contact, and he pressed his lips in frustration.

Ingrate, indeed.

They all followed her into the longhouse, he walking just a few steps behind her as if he was her guard.

“Sister!” Tòrmoður greeted her merrily. “How nice to see you again!”

The man seemed genuinely happy, even if she had been harsh with him when he had come to her farm to make a proposal for Ólafur. He must tolerate her temper. The house wasn’t crowded like the last time Loki had been here, when he was given to Eyð, eight or nine weeks ago. There was just the widow’s brother, his wife and children and a few servants and slaves. The woman immediately spotted him and appreciatively pursed her mouth, shamelessly devouring him with her eyes. It took all his patience not to roll his eyes and just look indifferent.

Eyð noticed her sister in law’s stare, for she turned her head to him, her brows knitted, and he felt amusement at reading the emotion flashing in her eyes.

Jealousy.

Now this was getting interesting.

He crossed her eyes and his lips curled in a lopsided smile, but she only scowled and turned again to her brother, her shoulders squared.

“Come sit”, said Eyð’s sister in law. “You must be hungry and thirsty.”

“Thank you, Dagbjört.”

He waited until she took a seat at the table with the masters, then sat further away with Ronan.

“I’m surprised to see you here, for we didn’t expect you to leave your farm before Jòl.”

“You are right. I wouldn’t have left, if it weren’t for Arni and Kolfinnr.”

“What about them?”

“I don’t want them anymore.”

Tòrmoður frowned, his eyes narrowing in curiosity as the two men showed signs of impatience and indignation.

Loki shifted his position, casually resting his elbows on his knees, eagerly watching the siblings as Eyð explained why she dismissed the two men.

“I highly doubt that they are trustworthy. They don’t show the support I expect from them, nor the help I need.”

She was attacking them brutally. He admired her temper, but the men would likely hold a grudge against her.

“If they eat more than the value of their work, I don’t need them, and thus send them away.”

“You are insulting us by implying that we should do your slaves’ work to earn our meals.”

She stood, her eyes flashing with anger, and Arni stood in front of her, defying her once again. Loki raised, too, and approached the table, ready to defend her again if necessary. Tòrmoður stared at him, and the god could read suspicion struggling with curiosity in his eyes. Eyð lifted her face to him, grateful and exhausted. He watched her patiently, waiting for her instructions.

“Thank you, Hveðrungr”, she sighed. “Arni wouldn’t think of threatening me under my brother’s roof.”

“No, I wouldn’t”, said the man with a dark look to him, and he sat back.

Loki nodded without conviction and went back to his place.

“Why does his face look like mush?” asked the chieftain, waving his head to Arni.

The man glared at him and had a bitter twist in his lips.

“He – we had a disagreement.”

Loki rose again and spoke out loud.

“The man threatened your sister. He tried to strangle her. I hit him, to protect her.”

“Really?” said Tòrmoður. “Why would you do that? You caused us enough trouble when we brought you back.”

Loki chuckled darkly.

“Yes, you are right. The mistress is good and righteous. I have been treated with honour.”

“Even though you are a slave?”

The man rose his brows and watched his sister.

“A slave of high-value, as you mentioned when you entrusted him to me”, she said. “Who would I be if I treated a prince like an outcast?”

“A former prince”, corrected her brother, his eyes scrutinizing them both in turns.

Loki calmly held the chieftain’s stare. Eyð, however, blushed and wriggled uncomfortably on her chair. She casted a shy glance to him and waved him away. He nodded and obeyed, regaining his seat next to Ronan.

“Why do you do that, boy?” mumbled the man.

“I’m not a boy.”

The old man chortled. If only he knew how much older he was, he wouldn’t, though.

“Still you keep looking for trouble.”

“Only for the mistress’s sake”, he answered softly, taking a spoonful of porridge, faking to be absorbed by his bowl. The food was hot, and the oatmeal was pleasantly flavoured with butter and dried berries, a display of the master’s wealth.

“She’s pretty, eh?”

He glanced at the slave, who gave him a playful wink. He didn’t want to encourage this conversation.

“I guess she would be if she smiled. She mostly looks tired.”

The old man grunted.

“Poor girl. She’s so sad. When Ásgeir married her and brought her to the farm –“

He willingly cut off his audition and exhaled slowly through his nose, feeling the weight of annoyance and boredom. Ronan’s prattle distracted him from what was said at the master’s table, and he craved to know how Eyð was talking her way out of her situation. At some point, her brother dismissed the two men and talked to her in a low voice, leaning to her for privacy. He casted a glance to him, whereas she kept her eyes lowered and lips tightly shut. He pressed his lips, too. They were obviously talking of him, and he badly wanted to know what they were saying.

He heard Ronan speak but didn’t listen to him, having to exit from his speculations when the slave nudged him. He tilted his head towards him, not bothering to hide that he looked bored.

“I was asking, do you have a wife?”

“No.”

“Why not? You are a prince, aren’t you? Princes do marry to sire heirs, or so I heard.”

This time he smiled genuinely at the old man’s candour.

“Yes, you are right. It is expected from princes. However, I’m but the second son.”

“Oh, right. So, is your brother married?”

He laughed, and Ronan laughed with him, though slightly nervously.

“Not yet. Our parents are still looking for the perfect match. For both of us.”

“Mmmmh.”

Tòrmoður began to tell a story to his children. He was explaining to them how Thor visited the giants in Jotunheim, who made him drink the sea and wrestle with Old age itself. He was a talented raconteur, miming the drinking contest and the wrestle.

When the tale was finished, Eyð asked him to tell them how Mjölnir had been forged.        

“Loki, the Sly god, shaved Sif’s golden hair while she was sleeping.”

“Oh, that’s mean”, complained the little girl.

Loki smiled for himself. He reminded very well that night. Cutting Sif’s hair had been mean, the girl was right. But she didn’t know Sif, and he had had very good reasons to play this mischievous trick on her, for the woman was truly insufferable.

“So to avoid the Gods’ punishment, he went to Nidavellir and asked the Dwarves to craft a golden hair for Sif.”

Ah, that was the Miðgardian version of the story. Her hair was golden before he cut it. It never grew the same colour after.

“And she was quite happy with it”, added the chieftain.

Now he had to bite his lips to prevent a burst of laughter. Sif hadn’t been happy at all with her dark hair, but it was better than having a shaved head, wasn’t it? It served the snooty girl right.

“And then, the Sly one dared the dwarves to make other artefacts.”

Now, he didn’t want to hear the end of this story. He had bet his head on Sindri’s and Brokkr’s inability to forge enchanted objects, and had kept it thanks to his silver tongue only.

“Loki disguised in the form of a fly, and bit each dwarf sibling as they worked and crafted Gullinbursti, the living boar, and Draupnir, Odin’s magical ring. And when Sindri added iron in the bellows and told his brother he’d have to be particularly meticulous, the Sly god waited and waited until the dwarf was in the middle of his work. And then –“ he hit the table with his fist, making the children jolt and burst with laughter, “he viciously bit Sindri’s eyelid, and the blood ran in the dwarf’s eye so he couldn’t properly see his work. And that’s why the hilt of Thor’s hammer is shorter than it should have been. Now, go to bed.”

The children kissed their parents and scattered, a slave taking care of them.

Eyð cautiously stood, her baby sound asleep in her arms.

“I’ll go and rest, too.”

She turned to Loki, an undecipherable look on her face.

“You’ve been helpful today. You’re allowed to sleep in here. Make yourself comfortable beside the hearth.”

Oh. This was unexpected. He suppressed a satisfied smile and graciously nodded to her. Sleeping in the longhouse was a noticeable improvement. Tonight, he had been treated as a person.

Chapter Text

Talk
Let's have conversations in the dark
World is sleeping, I'm awake with you
With you

John Legend, Conversations in the Dark

VIII.

The bench immediately made Eyð miss her bed, back at home. Whereas it was covered with warm sheep skins, it was hard and uncomfortable. She truly longed to sail back home.

For once, little Ásgeir was sound asleep and didn’t wail. It was relieving. He was laying next to her, his tiny fists curled in his sleep, his cute face serene. She was wearing a thin shift and her fine dress was neatly folded in a corner of the bed. Tightening the covers around her, she was watching Hveðrungr’s – Loki’s – back. He was laying on his side, his face to the firepit.

She bit her bottom lip.

Tòrmoðdur had tell the tale of the crafting of Mjölnir. She couldn’t help thinking that perhaps Loki had a slightly different version, or that he could add details. Couldn’t help thinking that he must know a lot about shape-shifting, and thus could explain her why he affirmed that Ásgeir could not have changed into a seal.

She softly called him and motioned him to come closer when he turned on his back and watched her.

He rose to his feet and approached, sitting on the floor next to her, watching her expectantly.

“I wondered –“

She interrupted her whisper, feeling stupid.

“Yes?” he murmured, his face open and brows raised in curiosity.

Not used to his patience and benevolence, she frowned before trying.

“Are the stories true? I mean, did you really cut Sif’s hair and shape-shifted into a fly to bite the dwarves during their work?”

He took time to lay down on his back, one arm tucked under his head, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“I did.”

He kept silent for a few moments, apparently considering something, his eyes turned to the ceiling. She grabbed one of the pillows and gave it to him, and he thanked her with a smile.

“I almost lost my head, too.”

“Is that so?”

She propped herself on her elbow to have a better look at him.

“I bet my head that the dwarves couldn’t craft the artefacts. What saved me when they succeeded is that I argued they couldn’t cut my neck, for it wasn’t part of the wager.”

She smiled and suppressed a giggle. That was smart. She could almost picture him faing the dwarves and talking his way out of the trap he had fallen into.

“Did it work?”

“I suppose”, he sighed. “But in the end, the dwarves managed to have my lips sewn, to prevent any further lies.”

He said it with such sadness that she couldn’t help but feel her heart squeeze in pain for him. It must be an awful punishment.

“How very cruel of them”, she breathed, and it was painful to read surprise in his eyes, immediately replaced with a hardness she was more accustomed to.

“Don’t pity me”, he hissed lowly.

“It’s not pity. Rather disapproval. I meant it, it’s very cruel.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked taken aback, almost vulnerable, before he averted his eyes. She let the silence stretch, not feeling uncomfortable. She attentively watched his thin lips in search of scars she couldn’t find. Maybe his divine nature helped his body to heal completely?

“Do you miss your family?”

“Mmmh. I miss chatting with Frigga, I must admit.”

“Oh.”

She knew Frigga was his mother. She knew it, having heard the stories. But hearing it from him made it real. She exhaled slowly. He was a living god, but he was also a being, kept away from his home and relatives. She knew what it was, to be far from one’s family. Tòrmoður had come from Norway to settle here, and had quickly become a chieftain because he was a talented warrior. Ásgeir had helped him a lot and had been rewarded with a farm and his chieftain’s sister. It had been uprooting to leave her family and friends, to leave the forests for these barren islands. But Orla quickly took her under her wing and became akin to an old aunt.

“Is it disrespectful to ask how she is?”

He lightly shook his head.

“She’s… indescribable. Kind, cunning, and fierce, very well practiced in diplomacy –“

Eyð didn’t understand that last word, but she didn’t interrupt the god as he spoke with a thin, nostalgic smile. She closed her eyes to enjoy the peace of the moment. Never had she felt relaxed around him, but tonight, she couldn’t think of his arrogance or of his threats. Only that he trusted her enough to tell her about his family.

“I’m boring you, mistress”, he whispered, and she knew that if she opened her eyes she could see the now familiar mischievous glint in his clear irises.

“Not at all. I was just thinking that I do like having quiet conversations with you.”

“I like our usual bickering, too.”

She opened her eyes. He was intently watching her with teasing eyes, an insufferable smirk on his lips.

Oh, by the Æsir. This man.

“Good night, Loki”, she murmured, turning away to hide her smile.

***

Loki had always been an early bird. He was already sitting by the firepit, stirring the embers and adding dry peat on it when the first servant girl woke up and started mixing barley flour with water and skyr, vigorously kneading the dough before letting it rest for a while. She ignored him and fled when the chieftain walked out of the master’s bedroom and sat on a stool next to him.

“It seems my sister trusts you, Hveðrungr.”

“Really?”

The man chuckled.

“Why, yes. She wouldn’t let you protect her if she didn’t.”

“I might object that she sailed with us precisely because she didn’t trust me no to throw Arni overboard.”

Now, Tòrmoður laughed.

“Still, you slept at the foot of her bed like a watchdog.”

His eyes glowered at the insult. It took all his self-control not to strangle the man for his disrespect, and he decided to be insulting, too.

“I didn’t trust Arni not to kill your sister in her sleep. He seems to be enough of a coward to do so.”

Tòrmoður hummed and nodded, seemingly considering his words.

“How is she doing?”

Loki gave the man a suspicious look. He had come to make a degrading proposal two months ago, and now he cared about his sister’s health?

“She’s tired. Her child doesn’t sleep much. In fact, it’s been the first night he didn’t wail for hours.”

“Mmmh. What do you think?”

He narrowed his eyes. Was the chieftain asking for advice?

“Well, a wet nurse would be very helpful. The lack of sleep is taking a great toll on her.”

He wasn’t about to admit that she saw or imagined things that didn’t exist, such as this ridiculous idea of her husband coming back in a seal-skin. He didn’t want her brother to take advantage.

“Right. I have a nursing slave, but she’ll take her daughter with her. The girl can help when she comes of age.”

“She needs another slave, now that her husband’s warriors are here. Give her a boy, too. A strong one.”

Tòrmoður gave him a curious smile and leaned a little to him.

“I can see you’re still used to commanding, Your Highness.”

Loki smirked, choosing to feign being ignorant of the implied insult in the man’s comment.

They both turned to Eyð as they noticed her approaching the fire and taking a seat next to them. Loki couldn’t help noticing how her long hair curled nicely, now that it wasn’t braided. She had slipped her dress and finished to fix her apron with a brooch before she sat, setting a guarded gaze on them.

“Did you sleep well, sister?”

“Yes, it’s been a long time since I slept like this.”

She still looked tired, though. She would have to have several resting nights to get in shape.

“You are going to need help with the farm now”, carefully said Tòrmoður.

“If you are trying to persuade me to marry Ólafur, you are wasting your time, dear brother.”

He chuckled, and Loki couldn’t suppress a slight smile. He had come to genuinely like her temper and sharp tongue.

“I know, I know. What I’m saying is that I give you two more slaves to do the work.”

She sighed heavily.

“Hveðrungr here persuaded me.”

“Oh. Did he, really?”

Her icy stare was now fixed on Loki, and he held her gaze in silence.

“Don’t you have something to say, Hveðrungr? You always are so eloquent.”

“I just care about your well-being, mistress. I thought that you would appreciate to have some more slaves to alleviate your work.”

“You think too much.”

He took a deep inhale, ready to snap back.

“Be as it may”, interrupted Tòrmoður, “I agree with Hveðrungr.”

Loki gave him a smug nod as the chieftain called one of his men and sent him to the slaves quarters. He could see Eyð was quite displeased with this decision. She kept her eyes on the fire, her lips tightly pressed. The servant girl came back, put an iron skillet on the fire and baked flat breads one by one, putting them on a dish she placed on another stool next to her master, along with a pot of butter and a spoon. He thanked her with a nod.

They started eating in silence.

Loki was surprised to be allowed to sit and eat with the chieftain and his sister. She would never grant him to eat with her, and he usually took his meals with the two old slaves. It had been a long time since he was treated like a free man, and he felt oddly grateful for it.

After breakfast, Loki was busy preparing the skúta with Ronan for the travel back to Svínoy. Tòrmoður gave more bags of barley and oat to eat comfortably during winter. Then they embarked the two new slaves, a boy of twelve or thirteen winters named Kòrmakur and a woman named Melkorka with her ten-month girl. When they were ready, Eyð came on the deck, her child in her arms. He extended his hand as an invitation to help her, and she took it to get aboard, letting go of it as soon as she could, sitting in the same place at the back of the boat near the rudder-oar, stubbornly avoiding to look at him.

He tightly pressed his lips and sighed through his nose.

Right, she’s upset with me.

Why was she always so difficult? They finally could have a peaceful chatter the previous evening, and he had caught a glimpse of what could his life be if they managed to come to a compromise. Why did she have to behave like everything he did offended her? Her mulishness was quite frustrating.

The thought hit him that he was the one thinking about compromises. How very unusual of him. How very beneath him. He clenched his jaw, utterly frustrated. The shackle would have to be removed as soon as possible, for it was giving him thoughts he had never imagined.

And yet, as they set sail and exited the fjord towards the open sea, he couldn’t help thinking of their conversation. He had felt nostalgia and yearning for home, for sure, but he had genuinely enjoyed watching her peaceful face, noticing for the first time the way her upper lip curled in an oblivious smile as she expectantly watched him, waiting for his answers, observing with pleasure the keen expression in her eyes.

For the first time in almost three months, she really looked alive, and he truly felt that she was there, somewhere underneath all the layers of anger and sorrow she had buried herself in.

All of this was at waste, because today, she looked like an empty shell, so deeply withdrawn in herself that nothing could seemingly touch her. She absent-mindedly watched the sea, rocking both herself and her son. The slave nurse was sitting next to her, cradling her daughter, too, but Eyð didn’t acknowledge her, like nothing mattered to her.

The steady wind allowed them to travel quickly. As soon as Ronan and Loki beached the fishing boat on the sand, she jumped out of it, not waiting for his help, dampening her boots and the bottom of her skirts in the water, then strode to the skáli.

***

“I entrust those slaves to you”, Eyð said to Orla, pointing at the boy and the wet nurse. “As for you”, she said to them, “you will obey her in every way.”

The new slaves silently nodded.

She passed in her bedroom and changed her wet dress for comfortable wool breeches and her favourite knee-length tunic, before going out with little Ásgeir.

“Come, sweetie”, she whispered as they crossed the threshold, tightly wrapped in her heavy cloak, “let’s go and see your father.”

She nearly bumped in Loki as she crossed the threshold and the man – no, the god – gave her a suspicious look she only answered with empty, tired eyes.

The seal wasn’t there.

Usually, it could be spotted easily. But today, she searched the waves and couldn’t see it – him, as she called it in her mind.

She carefully sat on the pebbles, sitting her son between her legs and propping his back against her belly, and watched. Picking a mermaid’s purse on the ground, she showed it to the baby, still scrutinizing the sea.

There was nothing to see but waves and seabirds.

The daylight was already diminishing, making the atmosphere look blue and grey.

She shook her head in disappointment.

After a few more minutes, footsteps scraped on the pebbles, and she turned her head to discover Loki.

Why was it only ever him to trouble her when she was here?

“It will be dark soon”, he drawled, his voice low and deep.

She nodded.

“He’s not here”, she said as an explanation.

“Who?”

She felt stupid, utterly stupid for confessing such a thing to him, the most untrustworthy man she knew. Not a man.

“Look, Eyð, he won’t come back. This is just a seal.”

She lowered her head to the ground, feeling ridiculous. Defeated.

“I understand that you hope he might not be dead, but let’s face it, he drowned. He is in – “

“Don’t say it. There is no need to be cruel.”

Her voice was low, and tired, even she could hear it. He crouched in front of her, and little Ásgeir straightened and extended his tiny arms to him.

“I don’t want to.”

“Do you? Why did you weaken me in front of my brother? Why did you persuade him to give me more slaves? You overstepped, Loki, and it was a mistake.”

“My intention wasn’t to make you look weak but to help you!”

“Why? You don’t even care!”

He gave her a hard look.

“You’re wrong.”

Liar, she thought.

“Liar”, she repeated out loud. “You care that I unshackle you is all.”

A heavy sigh was his answer. He let a silence stretch, his eyes on the ground, then took a deep inhale.

“I very much enjoyed our little talk, last night. I lied when I said I liked bickering with you.”

She couldn’t help but scoff, as if to say I knew you were lying.

“I could get used to such a peace between us.”

She didn’t answer. She was tired. Tired of being brave, tired of being angry. She didn’t want to fight anymore.

“I could, too”, she whispered.

He lifted his hand hesitantly, and brushed her fingers with his.

“Let’s go home”, he whispered back, standing without waiting for her answer.

Once again, he was telling her what to do, commanding her without having to be authoritative. He didn’t have to. He was a prince, a god, and authority was a second nature to him, when she had to force herself. She stood, too tired to fight him. Unwilling to fight him. But it didn’t mean she accepted to surrender herself to him.

She gave him a long look, and stood with a sigh.

“Give me your son”, he offered, his face smooth and open, an honest glint in his eyes. He had for once abandoned his mask of aloofness and boredom.

And then, then, she saw it: the beauty Orla had spoken of.

The fair skin and aristocratic aquiline nose, the calm and confident gaze of someone who had always been his own master.

Yes, she thought. He was a god. How could he not bear any beauty at all?

Little Ásgeir was trying to reach for him.

Right.

She handed him the baby and was surprised to observe he held him correctly, his head safely nestled in the crook of his elbow and said kind words to the child, giving him a gentle smile.

This was so unlike him. Wasn’t it a trap?

She took a step towards the house, and he followed suit, quickly coming next to her. She kept an eye on his hands and on her son.

“I never thanked you properly for the clothes you made me.”

The deep sound of his voice almost startled her. She had assumed he would respect her silence. She particularly didn’t expect him to show such civility to her.

“You’re welcome”, she answered shortly.

“I like the green shirt. The fabric is very fine, and very comfortable. You are a talented weaver.”

This time, she blushed and lowered her face to the ground.

“You are flattering me.”

“Not at all. I assure you I never wore such a refined shirt on Miðgard.”

“Yes, you did. The shirt I mended was a most beautiful one.”

He hummed in agreement.

“It wasn’t made in Miðgard.”

“Really? Where did you –“

She interrupted her question, ignorant of the right word to use. Did he buy his own clothes? Did he purchase any clothes? Were clothes used as a gift, just like she had made her own offering?

“I bought it in Alfheim”, he completed.

It was so unreal, to casually talk like this about clothes and other realms. She stopped in her tracks, a few steps from the paddock.

“Can I ask something?”

She didn’t want to risk being heard.

He nodded encouragingly.

“The tree – Yggdrasil – how is it like?”

He smiled, visibly pleased by her question, and she didn’t feel stupid, for once.

“Miðgardians tell it is a great ashtree.”

She nodded. She knew this.

“It looks like a tree, but actually, it is more like great boughs of stars and gas clouds that link the realms one to another.”

Now, she felt stupid.

“A tree with boughs made of stars.”

“Yes”, he said.

“It must be beautiful.”

It was the only answer she could think of, feeling that her what she knew was so shallow compared to the abysmal knowledge he seemed to possess, that it was better to keep silent. He nodded appreciatively, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She smiled, too, not feeling guilty for it. A god had just share a secret knowledge with her, small as it was, and she felt grateful for it.

“What about magic?”

He gave her an inquisitive look.

“You told me there is no magic in men.”

He took a deep inhale and lifted his face to the sky. What was it she could read on his face? Sadness? Guilt?

“Seiðr is granted by the Æsir. We are its guardians. We control it, make sure its use is balanced in the realms. There is very little magic in Miðgard.”

“But it exists?”

“Yes. This collar is a proof that it exists”, he sighed, lazily waving his hand to his neck.

She hummed in agreement. Now was the time to ask her question, the question that lingered in her mind since her brother told the story about the forging of Mjölnir.

“What about shape-shifting?”

His stare became instantly keen and penetrating.

“What about it?”

“You can – master this art, can’t you?”

“I can. It took me decades of daily training to eventually become an expert.”

“So –“

“If you are asking me whether your husband could accidentally have shape-shifted into the sea creature that you so keenly observe, I’m sorry to tell you that it is not possible. By any mean. It truly requires great power and mastery.”

 His answer, harsh as it was, was spoken softly, carefully.

She slowly nodded, her head hanging low in defeat. Then she took on her surroudnings. Fog was gathering on the cliffs, creeping down to the sea. It was time to walk back.

“Let us go warm ourselves besides the fire”, she offered after a few minutes, and he silently agreed.

They walked to the house, none of them speaking, and she stopped before the door, turning to him.

 “It would be cruel of me to make you sleep with the cows, as I intend to let Melkorka and Kormakur in the house. You can take Kolfinnr’s bench, if it pleases you.”

He grinned widely.

“Thank you, mistress.”

The stress he gave the last word made her shiver.

Chapter Text

IX.

They had a peaceful evening. When Eyð came back from the beach with Loki, Melkorka had helped Orla to prepare a hearty soup with angelica roots, barley and mutton. The two new slaves were casting wary glances around them, but in the end, the boy managed to relax, whereas the woman kept her shoulders tense.

“How long have you been here in the Føroyar?” Eyð asked her.

“Two winters.”

Eyð nodded.

“Whose child is this?” she asked again, pointing her finger to the little girl.

The woman gave her a long, frightened look and kept silent.

She pressed her lips and nodded, easily figuring what could have happened. Being a free woman was not easy. Being a slave woman was far worse.

“And where are you from?”

“Eire.”

“I’ve tried to speak my language with her”, croaked Orla, shaking her old head in sadness, “but I haven’t spoken for so long that I have forgotten many words.”

Eyð felt surprised. To her, Orla had always been part of the household. It never came to her mind that maybe, maybe, Orla could miss her family just as she missed Ásgeir. She tended to forget that her husband’s father had caught the slave when she was but a girl. Ronan had come later.

“Do you miss them? Your village, your family?”

The old woman shook her head again.

“Nah, not anymore. I don’t even remind my mother’s face. Ásgeir’s parents treated me decently, as you do. It could have been worse.”

A quick glimpse at Loki let her see he was focused on his steaming bowl. A calculated, feigned indifference, for sure. Did he not claim that he loathed Ásgeir? Perhaps he kept distant to avoid saying something unpleasant, and for now she was happy with it.

Or perhaps he wasn’t brewing on his resent? Perhaps Orla’s words made him think of his home? Did he not admit that he missed his conversations with Frigga? Surely he missed his family and didn’t want to acknowledge it to her out of reticence. Could he have a softer side, even though he was the Dark god and had to maintain his terrifying demeanour? The thought made her smile to herself. After all, they might have this in common: maybe, just like her, he had to act strong to preserve a façade and a reputation, just as she spent an enormous amount of energy to act like the mistress instead of laying in her bed all day long like she sometimes wanted to. Maybe, one day, they would be totally honest with one another.

Don’t dream too much, you silly girl, she chided herself. He’s the god of Lies.

The thought reminded her of another name of the god, one Ásgeir would use when he told stories about the Æsir: Ormstunga, Snake-tongue. It always sounded offensive in his mouth. He obviously favoured Thor, the god of thunder, and Tyr, the god of war and justice. What would he say if he knew his wife sheltered and fed the Sly god, as he also called him? That she had nightly conversations with him? He would scold her, for sure. Should she feel that she was betraying his memory? After all, it was not as if she had willingly chosen to have this slave under her roof. And if she was totally honest with herself, she was beginning to like chatting with the Dark god.

They finished their meal quietly, then Eyð sent the slave boy to bed. Orla and Melkorka spun wool while she sewed a woven braid around the collar of a child’s shirt. She was making it for little Ásgeir. It was too large, but he would wear it in a few months, and she didn’t want to have to sew clothes in a hurry, for the boy was a tall and strong baby. Tonight, he had been calm and didn’t weep and wail. He was already sleeping in her bed. It was a great relief, but she didn’t feel less tired and soon rose to her feet.

“Hveðrungr”, she said quietly, “everyone is going to sleep in here from now on. You can stay and take Kolfinnr’s bench.”

She had already told him so a few hours ago. She rather said it for Orla and Ronan, and while the woman gave her a pointed look, the old man addressed a thin smile to his fellow slave.

“Thank you, young mistress”, said the god with a gracious bow that made her bite her lip to prevent a smile.

Avoiding Orla’s scowl, she turned around and made her way to the master’s bedroom, drawing the heavy curtain behind her.

***

In the light of the full moon, she could distinctively see it.

The great seal-bull was crawling ashore out of the surf, its damp coat shining in the moonlight, the pebbles rolling under its body. It stopped and turned on its back, bringing its flippers to its belly. Its breath came out in white puffs n the cold air. The flippers slapped a few time against its chest, then began to pull at its skin until it tore open with a ripping sound.

She tightly pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress any sound.

The seal pulled and pulled on its skin, huffing with effort, then let its flippers fall down lifelessly. And as she watched intently, she could see the five stretched fingers of a hand coming from the inside of the seal and pushing the skin to the side.

She felt repulsed with horror and a violent shiver shook her.

A manly frame sat up, pushing the seal skin past their head. The man shook his shaggy red hair and turned his face to her, and in the dim light his brown eyes were black, bottomless pits of abyss.

“Hello, wife”, he said with a large grin.

She woke up with a loud gasp, jolting upright, feeling sick.

This was one of the worst nightmares she had had. It was so vivid! She could still see Ásgeir’s bright red mane clinging to his forehead, sticky with whatever blood or bodily fluids clung to it, his strong arms and sturdy chest glistening in the moonlight.

She needed fresh air.

Wraping a long shawl over her night shift, Eyð rushed through the skáli and pushed the main door open without worrying of stealth. Once outside, she took a few steps along by the house and leaned on the wall, dry heaving with revulsion, trying to breathe, casting glances to the shore. She couldn’t see much. Walking on the beach was always a good idea. It helped her think and had a very appeasing effects on her. She also liked the cliff during daytime, but for now the beach would have to do.

When at last she managed to calm down a bit, she walked down the meadow to the sea, cautious not to hurt her bare feet, wrapping her arms around her to make a feeble shield against the cold wind. She wouldn’t stay long, she just had to have a walk to distract her troubled mind from the dream. She carefully stepped on the pebbles, not wanting to twist her ankle, when a heavy, low growl made her jolt and stop in her tracks.

The wind carried the clouds away to let the moonlight reveal a dark oblong form next to her.

A seal was laying on the sand, just at a few steps, heavily breathing. It turned its head to look at her.

She gulped heavily.

It was so alike with her dream. She must still be sleeping, it was the only possible explanation.

She took a step back as silently as possible, then another. On her fourth step, she tripped on the hem of her shift and fell. The seal groaned loudly at her, its open mouth showing large teeth.

Eyð shrieked and crawled back in terror, vivid images of her dream coming back to her as the beast moved towards her. She couldn’t get up and crawled backwards, her face to the seal that was now rushing to her with a feral growl. Terror and panic blinding her, she kept fleeing as fast as she could, and as the beast propped itself on its flippers in a final move to bite her feet, she closed her eyes and turned her face away with a scream, not wanting to witness her injury.

She had time to curl up and protect her head with her arms, only hearing a wild cry that ended with a wet thud, and then no more noise than a heavy breath, not sounding like the seal’s breath.

Strong hands caught her shoulders and she jerked away with a yelp, struggling and hitting whomever could manhandle her.

“Eyð, it’s me, it’s me”, Loki’s voice said with force.

She stared wide-eyed, shaking with terror and cold, not recognizing him at once.

“Let go of me! Let go of me!” she cried, resisting against his hold, but he didn’t release her. He looked positively furious, his black hair flowing in the wind, eyes burning with wrath. He smelled of blood, and she could see dark splashes on his face. Blind with panic, she struggled with all her forces, but he only clutched stronger at her shoulders, his fingers painfully pressing in her flesh.

“What are you doing here?” he snarled, his teeth bared. “What were you thinking, woman?”

He was obviously mad at her, and all she could think was that he was going to punish her, just like a disobedient child, because she was outside at night, because she was far from the house, because she had obliviously exposed herself to danger. She managed to calm herself just enough to speak a coherent explanation.

“I had a nightmare – I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, she mumbled weakly.

He growled and gathered her roughly in his arms, making her stiffen, frozen in terror, her blank mind making it impossible to form any coherent thought but that he was very, very angry at her, and she struggled to push him and free herself from his grasp. He immediately loosened his grip, still holding her.

“Shhh, it’s over. You’re safe”, he whispered, unexpectedly cradling her. He caressed her hair, repeating soft soothing words, and she finally leaned limply against him, breathing heavily, tears rolling on her cheeks.

***

He scared her.

She was pushing him back, sobbing and whimpering, because his brutality terrified her further more when she needed to be comforted.

Willing his distress to cool down, Loki released his hold just enough to let her relax, placating her with soft words, exhaling a long sigh of relief when her muscles slackened and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, it’s over.”

He couldn’t still figure how she had come to get here, crawling on the pebbles, desperately trying to escape a furious seal. He slightly turned his head to make sure the beast was dead. He had picked the axe in the byre when he heard her leave the farm and struck only once, nearly beheading the animal.

“Shhhh, Eyð, it’s over”, he said lowly, cradling her like a child as she shook violently in his arms, trying to tame the mix of fear and anger that coursed in his veins. He had feared for her at seeing her totally helpless, nearly bitten by the sharp teeth of the seal. He felt angry at her, for she had endangered herself, leaving the house in the dead of night in nothing but a sleeveless shift and a shawl.

She had had a nightmare.

He had heard her wriggle and whimper in her sleep, and she had run across the house after she woke with a gasp so loud it almost sounded like a shriek. He didn’t move, assuming she wanted to breathe cool air. After a while, as she didn’t come back, he exited and observed his surroundings, trying to make out where she could be. Something was amiss. She was nowhere to be seen, nor heard. He went into the cowshed and grabbed the axe, preparing himself for whatever he felt was a threat.

And when he heard her scream, he rushed without thinking and ran to the beach, where the sound came from. Luckily, his divine physiology allowed him to run faster and longer, and he could reach her just in time.

As Loki now rocked Eyð back and forth, his temper cooled and made place to relief. Her hands were clutching at his shirt, and he pressed his nose to her forehead, inhaling the scent of her hair. She finally calmed down and slightly drew back, silently asking for distance. He let her go and sit back, watching her as she wiped her face with her palms.

“Let’s go back”, he offered. “You’ll only catch your death here.”

She nodded weakly, and rose on wobbly legs. She took a few cautious steps and at her low hiss, he assumed she must have grazed her bare feet.

“Here, allow me”, he whispered, scooping her in his arms in spite of her mumbled protests. Small and willowy as she was, she wasn’t a heavy load for him.

He had promised to protect her, hadn’t he? If he wanted her to remove the shackle, he had to fulfil his part of their deal. He also had to dissuade her from having ridiculous thoughts such as her husband coming back into a seal-skin. It only led her to do stupid things and hurting herself.

As he carefully carried her to the house, he felt her progressively relax in his arms and rest her head against him, abandoning herself to his hold.

Something warm bloomed in his chest.

She trusts me.

What was it that he was feeling?

“You knew it, did you?” she whispered. “That’s why you were so insistent.”

 “What are you talking about, little mistress?”

“You knew it was just a seal. You knew that the legends aren’t true. That Ásgeir couldn’t – wouldn’t ever come back –“

Now he felt like a heavy piece of lead was slowly making his way down his chest. It hurt. Why did he feel this?

She choked on her words and let a smooth sob, her shoulders and chest contracting in his arms. He took a few seconds to think about his answer. Now was not the time to be pitiless. Or maybe it was? He was the god of Discord, after all, even though he aspired to get to know Eyð and live peacefully here until she found a way to free him.

“Yes, I knew it. But my warnings were so cruel you couldn’t hear them.”

He felt her head moving in a soft nod, and she hummed.

“There is no magic in men, that’s what you told me.”

“I remember.”

“So how is it that the Scot witch managed to shackle you?”

Ah. It was a good question. One he had mulled about and didn’t have the answer yet.

“Every once in a while, in some bloodlines, an individual can be born with powerful magic. It is more frequent that women bear magic than men. They are more sensitive, more receptive to it.”

“How could I open the shackle?”

He had given the matter some thought, but he wasn’t sure of anything.

“A sacrifice, perhaps. She might have used blood-magic.”

“Blood could open it?”

“It could.”

She hummed again.

They were reaching the house, and she extended her arm to open the door.

“Be quiet. Don’t wake anyone. I don’t want to receive an earful from Orla right now.”

“I can take care of the old shrew”, he chuckled, and stopped as she put three fingers on his lips. It wasn’t a caress – she merely wanted him to be silent – but it made his stomach contort like a snake, and he suppressed both a shiver and a kiss on her fingertips.

He nimbly, silently crossed the skáli and entered her bedroom, carefully depositing her on her bed. As he straightened, he casted a glance to her, a lithe white form slowly reclining on the bed, looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Oh, her lips. His divine eyesight allowed him to notice that they were pink and swollen – she must have bitten them in her distress. He couldn’t help noticing how her hair flowed on her pillow, how the fabric hugged her thighs and tensed on her bent knees. He licked his lips, feeling his loin stir.

It was only a physiological reaction. It was many months since he had a woman, nothing more. Could he take advantage and satiate his bodily needs? Could he have her right now?

His body felt ready for her. His breath was shorter and heavier and his mouth watered at the thought of her skin under his lips. He swallowed hard, his blood racing in his veins, heat creeping under his skin.

She was a mortal, and would surely submit to a god.

But was it submission that he wanted from her?

He clenched his fist, suppressing a sudden urge to plunge his fingers in her long mane.

After a few moments, she blinked and turned her back to him to lay on her side, pulling the covers to her chin, huddling her son.

It was a silent refusal. A sign that he had to go. He shook his head to himself and went back to bed, certain that he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore.

Laying on his back, watching the ceiling, he let his anger churn in his chest. Anger for himself. He was a god, wasn’t he? If he wanted to take a mortal woman, what kept him from doing it? Why did he bother to respect her decisions and signals?

Anger for her, too, for she turned away and obviously didn’t return his desire. Because she was right here, at his fingertips, and wanted to play difficult to get. Her rejection – or her little game, whatever it was – was utterly frustrating, and his patience was getting thin.

Chapter Text

I watched you in your tragic beauty walk beneath my window
Eyes aimed high, but unfocused... sure, you never noticed me
You always wore the same dress, always bore the same expression
"It's a loveless world so what's the point of looking? Let it be...

The Legendary Pink Dots, I Love You In Your Tragic Beauty

X.

Domestic noises seemed to be louder than usual: through the thick fog of her sleepy mind, Eyð could hear women’s voices and a baby’s babbling. With a soft groan, she turned and felt around in search of little Ásgeir. The bed was warm, but empty. She sat in one movement, her blood racing in her veins.

Where was her son?

Swiftly getting up, she pushed the curtain aside and entered the skáli, hissing and hobbling on her hurt feet. Ásgeir was here, safely cradled in Melkorka’s arms, and watched the woman intently as she lowly sang a song to him. She lifted her face to her mistress and immediately brought her son to her. Eyð took the baby with a long, hard stare to the slave.

“You were fast asleep”, said Orla. “I went to your bedroom and picked the boy, for he was crying for suckling.”

“I didn’t hear him”, Eyð answered sheepishly.

“You badly needed to sleep.”

She nodded, and turned to Melkorka.

“Did you feed him?”

“Yes, mistress.”

The woman obediently kept her eyes to the ground.

“You did well.”

Melkorka lifted her gaze to her and something warm flashed in her eyes.

“What happened?” shrieked Orla, rushing to her and grasping her nightshift. “You’re all dirty and – is that blood?”

Eyð sighed heavily. This was exactly what she tried – and managed – to avoid last night: Orla’s inquisitive, wary stare, her trembling hands clutching the cloth.

“I had a nightmare and went outside to breathe”, she explained. “I fell is all.”

Orla hummed sceptically, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Could it have something to do with the seal Ronan and Hveðrungr are taking care of?”

Her blood ran cold.

“What seal?”

She handed little Ásgeir back to Melkorka, grabbed a shawl and went outside, in spite of the old woman protesting she was not wearing warm clothes.

The seal was hanging upside down, its head nearly cut off. Loki, his face to her, was skinning the beast, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his forearms covered with blood. There was blood on his face, too. The black and white dog was down at his feet, chewing on something gray – was it a flipper? The god must have caught her movement in the corner of his eyes because he turned his clear gaze to her, and as soon as he let his eyes on her, a mask of cold, imperious disdain slipped on his handsome features. Dishevelled as he was in the wind, with the haughty pout of his lips and his bright green eyes burning in his blood-stained face, he very much looked like the god of Chaos, beautiful and formidable. A cold shiver crept down her spine.

She looked at his hands. Then at the floor.

All this blood.

Maybe – maybe it could be of some use? Could she open the shackle with it? Could it conjure the blood-magic the god was bound with?

“Ronan”, she called. “Light a fire in the bath house and make sure to leave dry peat in there to keep it going.”

The man bowed and obeyed without a word.

She waited a few moments until she was alone with the god and walked to the seal, her head bent in shyness. Loki kept working in silence, carefully avoiding to look at her, seemingly not expecting her to do or say something. She looked at the animal. There was nothing to be seen but a dead seal, its open and empty belly exhaling its stench in the wind. A bucket placed underneath it was overflowing with entrails.

Orla came behind her and put her cloak on her shoulders.

“Come and have a bath, mistress, you’re not dressed for the cold.”

“I’ve already sent Ronan to the bath house. Go with him and make everything ready.”

Her straight spine and composed demeanour dissuaded Orla from arguing, but the old woman narrowed her eyes – not to her, but to Loki – before obeying. When she heard Orla’s footsteps walk away, Eyð turned her attention back to the dead body.

“There is nothing in it. Ásgeir couldn’t hide inside it. This is just a seal.”

Her whisper was very low, just spoken for herself. The god didn’t say anything, his knife still slicing through the grease between the flesh and skin.

“You warned me. You warned me, and I didn’t listen to you.”

“Indeed”, he growled this time, with a deep rumble.

He was angry – furious – at her, obviously. Was it because of her silly behaviour of the night? Because she had forced him to go outside in the cold wind? Or was it because of what she had obscurely felt last night? Because he might want her? She had felt so exposed, laying on her bed in nothing but her shift, under his lingering stare, listening to his breath, noticing it grew heavier.

Could it be that he wanted her? That he, a god, would debase himself with wanting a mortal? Had he not called her that – mortal – with a conceited tone that very much showed how much he despised her?

And yet, his touch was so careful, so soft when he held her. She had felt safe and cared for. It had been a long time since someone held her like this. It had been eight months, in fact, since her husband left to go raiding – never to come back.

Confused, she brushed the large cut made to eviscerate the animal, collecting blood on her fingers, and lifted her hand to the collar.

“May the blood of this animal set you free”, she breathed, and preparing to feel the burn of magic, spread the now cold, sticky liquid on the shackle.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

Not only the shackle didn’t open, but she didn’t feel the burst of heat, and Loki kept perfectly still.

Taken aback, she lifted frighten eyes to him, fearing his wrath at her failure. There was nothing but disappointment and boredom in his cold stare.

“Go wash yourself”, he sighed, waving her away with a lazy gesture of his bloody hand.

Now she felt something.

She felt a pang of hurt at the feelings she could read in his green eyes. She had miserably failed, and his disappointment was her punishment. And it hurt more than she could have thought.

Eyð obediently lowered her head and limped to the bath house. She waited inside it while Ronan was lighting a fire, sitting on a stool, gazing in the air, not bothering to notice the coming and going of her slaves.

She couldn’t understand the god’s fickleness. Why was Loki ignoring her? He was almost affectionate last night, comforting and reassuring her. He had watched her during long moments after he brought her to her bedroom, and she had hesitated to take his hand and invite him to share her bed, for his strong and warm body felt so good against hers.

It was just an effect of her grief. She wanted to be cared for, she wanted to be shown affection, lonely as she was. Nothing else. It was utterly foolish from her.

At some point, she flinched when Orla told her that she had put hot stones into the water, and that her bath was ready.

Pulling off her nightshift, she entered the hot water with a soft groan, for her left foot hurt under the heat, sat into the wooden bathtub and reclined, resting her nape on the edge, her eyes closed.

As Orla began to wash her hair, she waved her away.

“Leave me alone.”

***

She came to him almost naked, only wearing the thin linen shift that was stained with blood and a woollen shawl, while he was skinning and preparing the seal he had killed during the night to protect her from her own foolishness.

She stood before him almost naked, her thin nightshift clinging to her body like a glove, in the strong wind of winter that made the cloth flap like a flag. Her hips and breasts hugged by the thin fabric that revealed her body, lighting something dark inside him. He felt simultaneously aroused and loathing. Loathing at her for tempting him in such manner, so innocently, never realizing what she did to him, and for having turned her back to him last night, after he brought her safely to her bed. Loathing at himself for feeling attracted to her, for wanting her, and above all, for waiting for a sign from her. Wasn’t she a mortal? Wasn’t she to be pliant and respect a god’s will, even if this will was to bed her? Wasn’t it a great honour for a mortal to have a divine lover?

He didn’t understand why he let her touch the shackle with her fingers painted in seal blood. He knew it wouldn’t do anything, for he had killed the beast himself and the blood was cold. She didn’t understand blood-magic, and yet, she tried to set him free. Why did she do it? Out of fear? Out of submission?

Out of kindness, whispered something in his mind, and he pushed the thought back. People weren’t usually kind to him, save for Frigga.

Perhaps, perhaps, he let her try just to feel the brush of her fingertips on his skin.

The mere thought of the caress made his cock stir in his trousers, and he rolled his eyes to himself.

But it was too late, and he was overwhelmed by images of her, head back, throat offered to his kisses, exhaling a long sigh through her pink lips. Images of him biting her shoulder, rocking into her, panting against her skin. And in no time, he was painfully hard.

She must be a völva, too, and be complicit of the witch who shackled him. Why would he feel like that unless he was bewitched?

Cutting the grease and membranes that held the skin of the seal to the flesh, he bitterly pressed his lips and clenched his teeth.

The thought was grotesque. She didn’t know who he really was until he chose to reveal his true nature to her. And yet –

She must want something from him. It was the only possible explanation. Women didn’t chase him unless they wanted something. Being the Prince, he was seen as a mean of getting closer to the throne, to gain favours, to collect information. And soon, he had to learn to shut down whatever he could feel for any of these women. He took advantage, he fucked them, but never allowed them to spend a whole night with him, never allowed himself to commit, let alone to nurture any feeling.

So why was he hurt by her refusal of the night?

Why was he – maybe not happy, it would be beyond ridiculous, but – peaceful when he slept near her, at the foot of her bench in her brother’s house, fearing that Arni could kill her during her sleep? How debilitated was he to act like a watchdog?

What could she possibly want from him? She was a mortal, and couldn’t hope for something from the Realm Eternal. She wanted protection, and he already had granted it. What did she hope to gain from him? Why did it hurt to feel that this human used him for her own profit? He shouldn’t have cared, for she was far weaker than him. So why did it mattered so much to him?

With a heavy sigh, he once more concluded that he badly needed the collar to be removed, for his situation was getting worse than he thought.

He was neatly folding the seal skin when he heard angry footsteps behind him, and turned to discover this old shrew of Orla glaring at him, her arms crossed on her chest.

“You are up to no good”, she said sternly, making him suppress a chuckle – but he couldn’t help the sly smile on his lips.

Why, yes, it was in his nature.

“What are you talking about?”

“What did you say to the mistress? What did you do to her?”

He raised his brows in a silent question.

“Don’t play innocent. I’ve been watching the two of you. You’re trying to seduce her, to control her.”

He chuckled darkly, for he was thinking pretty much the contrary a few minutes ago.

“No, I’m not”.

“Really? You’re constantly acting like you’re taking her away from the memories of her husband.”

“She’s doing harm to herself, don’t you see it? She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep because she’s persuaded that her precious husband shape-shifted into a seal.”

“She’s mourning! Is it a reason to be so harsh with her? You’ve been nothing but cruel, boy, when you laughed at her and said those awful things about Ásgeir.”

“The man was a reckless brute.”

The old woman’s anger was growing, and she stepped right in front of him, admonishing him with a raised forefinger pointing at him.

“What you don’t want to understand is that you both knew two different sides of the same man. You only met the raider, she loved her husband, a man who cared for her and made her laugh. No one should speak like this to a mourning wife. You might be a prince, you singularly lacked restraint that day, and I bet your mother wouldn’t be so proud of you, if she knew.”

It felt like the old woman slapped him in the face. She was right. Frigga would scold him if she learned of his cruel behaviour.

“What could you know of my mother?” was all he could say.

“I might be a slave, but I wasn’t born in a farm. I was raised with spoilt boys like you, who only ever think of themselves.”

She gave him a pointed look, and for the first time in ages, he felt a hot flush creep to his cheeks.

“Oh yes, you can be ashamed of your behaviour, boy. You have every reason to.”

He exhaled heavily, lowering his eyes to the ground, indeed feeling ashamed for his behaviour, and very much vexed to be scolded like a restive adolescent.

“Now, explain to me. Why is this seal here? Why did the mistress have blood on her nightshift? Why is her foot deeply cut?”

Oh, Nornir. This seemed to have no end. Loki raised his eyes to the sky.

If Heimdall ever saw him, he must be having fun at his expense.

“Why was she out of her bed with you, in the dead of night?”

He shot her a hard stare, but the old hag didn’t flinch.

“The mistress”, he snarled, “put herself in danger. Persuaded as she was that her husband is now a seal, she went to the beach, and was attacked by this one”, he continued, pointing at the hung body with his knife. “Luckily for her, I’m a light sleeper.”

The rest was to be kept only for him. Her distress. The warmth of her body in his arms. The shape of her, laying on her bed.

“Mmmh, if you say so. Then, why is it that she conveniently allowed you to stay inside the house? Why weren’t you sent to the byre like every other night?”

He sighed.

“She first let me sleep in the skáli when we were at her brother’s. She didn’t trust Kolfinnr and Arni not to hurt her during the night.”

“Oh, no, they wouldn’t have dared.”

“Are you so sure? Arni seemed quite ready to commit murder.”

Uncertaintly flickered in Orla’s eyes.

“There’s no honour in killing a woman.”

“Who could call them honourable?” he smirked. “You have eyes, obviously. Did they stand with the mistress when I used evil words against the late master? Where were they when her brother came to speak his abhorrent proposal?”

“Abhorrent?” she squeaked.

He lifted his brows in feigned surprise.

“She didn’t talk about it? The chieftain wanted her to marry Ásgeir’s brother.”

“Yes, I knew it, but –“

“The man was nothing but disrespectful with her.”

The old slave scoffed.

“It suits you well to say that when you’ve been nothing but insolent and arrogant.”

He grinned at her, in a self-satisfied, mischievous grin.

“But I didn’t propose her. She’s strong and witty. I enjoy bantering with her. It’s” – and he gave a shrug, in lack of a better word – “stimulating.”

“Bantering?” she cried. “Bantering, really? What are your intentions? Are you planning on seducing her like a low farm servant?”

He smirked at her, amused to elicit such a reaction from the faithful slave. And – yes, was he not thinking just a few minutes ago about having Eyð whimpering beneath him?

 “I can’t believe you’re speaking so selfishly, boy. This is not bantering. Not for her.”

Orla gave him a sad, wet look, slowly shaking her head, and he frowned in concern. This was not turning out like he figured.

“She’s exhausted. You’re constantly keeping her on edge. You’re constantly challenging her. And now –“

She waved her hand to the bath house.

“ – now, she’s sitting in the water, her eyes empty. She’s totally withdrawn into herself.”

“It’s not the first time. She’s already been like that.”

“But it happens after you spent some time alone with her during the night. After you brought back this seal. What happened? What did you do to her? Did you assault her?”

He took a sharp inhale, taming his rousing anger. Did she think of him as a rapist?

“I’m not good. I can even be mean. But I’m not what you think”, he hissed though gritted teeth. “If I ever held her in my arms, it was only to comfort her.”

“Oh, and did you comfort her?” she railed.

The old shrew was tenacious.

“Why, I hope so.”

Or else, why would she have allowed him to carry her into the house?

“I don’t trust you.”

“And you’re right”, he laughed, receiving a dark look from her.

She poked her index in his chest.

“I’ll be watching you, boy. Don’t do anything disrespectful. Don’t overstep. If I have a feeling you might try to seduce her, you’ll go back to the cowshed.”

He gave an appreciative pout.

“It sounds fair enough.”

And as the old slave turned her back to him, taking a step to the bath house, evidently eager to take care of her mistress, he couldn’t help adding, “What will you do if she tries to seduce me?”

“What?” she squeaked, spinning around.

He fought his laughter, managing to look perfectly innocent.

“You heard me. Think about it that way: a woman of her condition, luring a young and good-looking man out of the house at night”, he added with a playful look and a wide grin, “wearing nothing but a thin nightshift. You’ve seen it yourself, this morning, for you were the one covering her with her cloak. What if she wants to seduce me? What do you say?”

Orla gave him a long, disdainful stare.

“I say you think too high of yourself”, she answered, turning again, ending their conversation.

This time, he barked in laughter, watching the old woman walking away with clenched fists, happy with himself when he caught a glimpse of Eyð’s bare back and wet long hair as Orla crossed the threshold of the bath house.

Chapter Text

The troubled words of a troubled mind I try to understand what is eating you
I try to stay awake but its 58 hours since that I last slept with you
What are we coming to?
I just don't know anymore

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

Radiohead, Black Star

XI.

As she crossed the threshold of the bath house, wearing a thick woollen apron dress over a clean long shirt, her hair still damp from the bath, Eyð quietly gasped at seeing the dark god waiting outside, his forearms covered with dry, crusted seal blood.

“You startled me”, she said.

 He kept silent and only scowled at her before side-stepping and entering the bath house. Her heart sunk further more. He was still angry at her.

“What are you doing here?” squeaked Orla’s voice inside the small buiding.

“Don’t mess with me, woman”, was his growled answer.

Orla insisted in indignation. Eyð heared their voices raise in the beginning of their fight. With a sigh, she stepped back to the threshold and pushed the door.

“Leave him be, Orla. He’s covered with blood.”

“He can wash outside like every other day.”

Eyð closed her eyes. The perpetual arguing in her own house was exhausting her.

“Hveðrungr is a prince. Grant him a hot bath and don’t trouble me with such trivial things.”

“You’re being too indulgent with him, mistress.”

Yes, she knew that.

He was taking advantage.

But what could she do? He was a god, so powerful and domineering, even though he had proved to be gentle with her sometimes. But not today. Today he was back to his cruel demeanour, watching her with unhidden conceit and evidently considering that talking to her was far below him. Turning her back to her, he stripped off his dirty shirt and tossed it on the floor, displaying the strong muscles of his back and broad shoulders, rolling under his fair, perfect skin.

Feeling like an intruder, she retreated inside the skáli, crossing it to her room, ordering Melkorka to bring her son to her when he would need to be fed.

She sat on her bed then laid on her side, eyes closed.

How she missed Ásgeir. How she wished he could wrap her in his arms and hold her against his chest. But it was not Ásgeir’s stocky chest she saw behind her eyelids. It was Loki’s tall and slender form that she saw. His strong back, taut muscles and narrow hips, as he discarded the soiled shirt.

Oh, no.

She couldn’t start thinking of such things.

She felt he was showing off to impress her.

He was scary. Unreliable.

And yet, he could be soft. And caring.

But he was fickle, so fickle. She was often taken aback by his unpredictable behaviour.

Musing over the dark god she housed, she lost track of time, and eventually drifted off to sleep until Melkorka shook her shoulder.

“Come eat, mistress.”

Sitting obediently, Eyð slowly rose to her feet and passed into the skáli. Her nostrils were assaulted by the stench of grilled meat. A smelly grilled meat. Walking to the fire pit, she tried to decipher what was cooked, but the god came to her, wearing the fine shirt she had mended, the one he was wearing when he was gifted to her. He handed her a plate of porridge, bread and dried mutton.

“Here you are.”

His voice was a deep, silken growl, and she dared lifting her gaze to him, only to meet his intense, intimidating stare.

“What is being cooked?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She raised her brows, only to be struck by realization.

“Oh.”

He tilted his head.

It was the seal’s meat.

Feeling nauseated, she shoved her plate in Loki’s hands and strode outside, followed by the god.

Cold breeze hit her as soon as she crossed the door. The fresh air was very relieving as she heaved to fill her lungs, cleaning them from the smell.

“I told Orla not to cook the seal, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

Of course, he had to follow her outside. He was like a curse she couldn’t escape, always surveying her.

“I’ve always hated this meat”, she whispered. “It has nothing to do with this particular seal.”

“Nor with your dreams, I’m sure.”

She shot him a warning look, and he smirked.

He dared smirking, sly, infuriating man that he was.

“Now come and eat in the bath house, it’s not stained with the smell. I must confess I find it quite disgusting, too.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

Her stomach was protesting against the very idea of eating.

But he had decided otherwise, naturally, and was determined to wield his power over her. Standing to full height, he addressed her an imperious stare and handed her her plate. She gave him a defiant stare but finally took the plate anyway.

“You have to eat.”

She sighed.

“Leave me alone, Loki.”

“No. And show some respect to a god.”

Eyð drew her eyes to the ground, blushing under his reprimand. He was, indeed, the one who had the real power. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t even frown. Wherever could she go? She was growing tired of his endless commands.

You’re lying to yourself, she thought, biting her lips. Isn’t it very reassuring to let him handle things around you?

He came back quickly, holding the same plat as hers, and put his free hand at the small of her back to guide her to the bath house. She allowed the touch and did as he wanted. The small house was still warm from the fire that had heated the stones used to warm the water.

She took a stool and he did the same, sitting next to her, as an equal.

“Eat”, he said, picking a slice of dried meat with his fingers and lifting it to his mouth.

“Do you behave like this with your wife?”

He almost choked on his bite, and she tried very hard to suppress a smirk, happy with herself as she managed to.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you always so patronizing? Does she tolerate it?” She bit her lips before adding slyly, “Does she like it?”

“I’m not married.”

Oh. This was unexpected. He must be lying, once more.

“Really? What about Sigyn?”

“What about her?” he asked back with a light frown.

“Our stories tell us that she’s your wife. That’s she’s very devoted to you.”

He chuckled, and she couldn’t tell if she deciphered amusement or bitterness in the sound.

“We had an affair, nothing more. I absolutely have no desire of marrying her. She’s too bossy, and has a sharp tongue.”

“She seems to be a good match for you, though.”

He chuckled more.

She took a bite of bread. It was tasteless in her mouth, and she forced it down her throat.

“Tell me about your husband, too.”

Now she truly felt alarmed. What if he wanted to be cruel once again? Casting a glance at him, she noticed his guarded gaze.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve said awful things about him.”

He hummed in agreement.

“I shouldn’t have. It was cruel of me.”

She glared at him, nodding approvingly.

He cleared his throat before adding, “I won’t, today.”

“Am I supposed to trust you?”

“You could try”, he said with a smirk. “Or you could pretend.”

She huffed, and played with her porridge. She didn’t want to fight with him and yet, her answer sharply crossed her lips before she could think of it.

“Alright. Let’s pretend.”

“Careful, sweet mistress. You’ve promised respect when we are alone.”

His thin, dangerous smile was enough of a warning. She bent her head obediently.

“What do you want to know?”

“Very simple things”, he said with a light shrug. “How long have you been married? How old was he? Was he good to you?”

She sighed heavily, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“We’ve been married for two years. I’ve been knowing him for four years. After the negotiations for our betrothal, he went raiding, and stayed abroad for more than a year. Legally, I could have broken the engagement.”

“And why didn’t you?”

She had a sad smile at her memories of Ásgeir’s bushy red hair, bright smile and mighty laughter.

“Because I felt attracted to him. He was like –“

Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard.

“– like the sun. Warm and comforting.”

She paused, thinking of her husband, playing with her food, her heart as heavy as a piece of lead under her ribs.

“I found out I was pregnant after he left last spring. He never even knew I was carrying his son.”

Her sorrow was washing over her again and she squeezed her eyes in pain, letting a tear roll on her cheeks.

“How old are you?”

She took a few moments to tame her grief and compose herself, wiping her face with her sleeves before answering.

“Nineteen winters.”

“So young”, he whispered. “You can live a full and happy life, if you will allow yourself to.”

Did she want to?

“You have a son to raise, young mistress. You are strong and beautiful. Stop harming yourself. Take a few months to mourn your husband, then move on. Your life is too short to waste it on endless grief.”

Maybe he was right. But could she hear this right now? It was so soon, and she didn’t feel ready. She didn’t feel anything but sorrow and hollowness.

“Orla told me he made you laugh.”

A memory sprung in her mind. Ásgeir, tossing her on her shoulder and spinning around, both of them laughing in the autumn sun. Then another memory. He and Tórmoður, telling a myth, miming the giantess Skadi when she discovered that the Æsir had tricked her into marrying Njorð, whom she had chosen because he had beautiful feet. How hard she laughed that day at seeing him with an apron dress. Her lips curled in spite of her tears.

“Yes. He did.”

“These are the memories you should keep of him. Throw the regrets and grief away. Keep the love and laughter.”

His words comforted her more than she could say. He tentatively approached his stool from hers and held his arms open as an invitation for an embrace. She didn’t think long before leaning in, resting her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as he wrapped her against him, a hand in her hair and the other drawing light, soothing patterns on her back.

“It’s going to be alright”, he whispered.

As much as she revelled in the warm feeling of safety and comfort he brought to her, she didn’t know what to think. He had been so distant and conceited in the morning, watching her with hard eyes, barely condescending to talk to her. And now, a few hours later, he was kind and gentle, offering comfort and consolation. Always inconstant and changeable.

“I can’t understand you”, she whispered, withdrawing from his touch.

***

“I can’t understand you”, she whispered, and he knew the moment was over.

Reading the uncertainty in her eyes, he knew what she was talking about. His changing demeanour. His hardened aloofness of the morning, and now the soft words and embrace. He couldn’t understand, either.

He was determined not to indulge into being gentle and caring with her, as he circled her to enter the bath house to wash away the blood and stench of the seal earlier. Not to get too close to her. Because she softened him.

But when Orla cut large pieces of seal meat to make them grill over the fire, he felt alarmed. Eyð would likely break if the old slave presented her such food, after she dreamt of her husband’s shape-shifting and he killed the beast that attacked her. Hadn’t he granted his protection? Making sure she would eat was protection.

And then, as he followed her into the bath house – therefore ensuring to spend some quiet time alone with her – he knew he couldn’t be rude and harsh with her.

The fact was that she soothed him.

Inexplicably.

He asked about her swine of a husband, managing to keep his tone calm and casual. Managing to placate her and drive her into happy memories. Even managing to make her smile. Slyly comforting her with kind and gentle words, using his silver tongue to alleviate her grief.

And as he finally had her where he wanted – in his arms, her head close to his, enjoying the feeling of her warm and supple body against his – he closed his eyes and softly inhaled her scent.

“Don’t try to”, he whispered back when she straightened and took some distance. “I can’t understand myself.”

He struggled hard not to let his eyes set on her lips, and instead, drew them on his hands, smiling ruefully. Now was not the time to let his desire show off. It would only ruin everything.

The door opened and Eyð rose with a jolt. Melkorka was bringing them two cups of light ale. She picked them from the hands of the slave and sent her away with a few words. When she turned back to him, she set cautious eyes on him. Her face was flushed and her breathe quicker.

He thanked her when she handed him a cup, careful not to touch her fingers with his.

“You still have to eat”, he added, showing her plate with his extent hand. “You’re doing harm to yourself. Eat to be strong for your son.”

She sat again, and picked a slice of dried meat before nibbling on it. He gave a satisfied nod and watched her as she ate, until she finished her plate.

“Very good”, he praised, and she huffed in disdain, which made him smirk.

He rose and picked the dishes.

“And now, go back to the house. I’ll go and tend to the sheep.”

It was a task he was used to do, by now. He despised the stupid animals, but had to acknowledge they were very useful as their meat fed him and their wool kept him warm. The women did the better part of the work, he just had to feed the flock.

The sheep pen was dark, a few rays of light passing through the lathes of the gable end. The strong smell of the animals and of the manure made his nose sting and he closed his eyes, taking a few moments to adjust to it. When he’d be able to go back to Asgard, he’d take the longest bath of his life to get rid of the smell, he swore it.

The ewes had already been fecundated by the ram. The flock was calm, watching him with their stupid eyes. A ewe came close and sniffed his hand, and he scowled at it, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Go away, you brainless ball of yarn.”

The dog had followed him inside the pen. There was no way he could get rid of the hairy beast. In the first days of his forced sojourn here, he did what he could to discourage the dog, in vain. It always came back to him, waving its tail, following him in spite of his scolding and harsh words. He had to capitulate and tolerate its company.

“Sit. Wait.”

The dog obeyed, attentively watching him with its warm brown eyes.

Loki sighed.

By the bloody Nornir.

He was even getting soft with the dog.

***

In the following days, Eyð made herself busy with her husband’s shirts. She carefully altered them to her size, so she could wear them as working clothes, or unsewn them and made children clothes with the fabric. It was a good sign. She was beginning to follow his advice and move on, instead of keeping her husband’s belongings as sacred relics.

She limited her interactions with him to the bare necessities, but he didn’t mind so much. There was some sort of a tacit agreement between them: she ate, kept safe inside the house, took care of her son with the help of Melkorka – and he was quite pleased with himself, for the woman was of great help with making the baby sleep, which garanteed that he slept, too – and in return, he worked his share and did his best to behave.

Of course, sometimes he couldn’t help himself with teasing or pranking Orla, just like when he replaced her butter with salted tallow, or the time he replaced the yarn she was weaving with fishing line. He even took the precaution to weave himself a few ranks with the fishing line so she wouldn’t notice his trick at once. These were harmless jokes, and they alleviated his mood. Eyð didn’t bother smiling, less much laughing, whereas Kórmakur soon made friends with him. The boy could be very inventive. He tied a tin pot to the dog’s tail, making him run away with awful, high-pitched howls of terror, and Loki laughed heartily at this. He was rewarded with an earful from Orla, a scolding stare from Eyð, and two hours looking for the terrified hairy dog. The beast never approached the slave boy since that day.

They were in the middle of Ýlir, the second month of winter. In less than a moon, they would celebrate the Jólablot, the great winter solstice festival. The women were already brewing strong beer to drink in honour of the gods. Whenever they mentioned the festival, he wondered with a smirk if Eyð would prepare something to propitiate him, her particular god. After all, she had already made a valuable offering with the nice shirt she had woven, dyed and sewn for him. Perhaps was she planning something else, as he seldom caught her eyes on him. He selfishly very much hoped so.

Chapter Text

XII.

“Did you ever think that there might be no purpose to life? No purpose at all?”

She spoke the question in a weak, tired voice.

No, of course, he never thought anything like that.

His life had always had a purpose. He was raised for ruling, as it fitted to a prince.

Learning, of course, took him the most of his time. He fortunately had a deep thirst for knowledge, and was a fast learner. These faculties, added to his immortality, helped him to learn about various domains, from poetry to quantum chromodynamics.

Attending political councils kept him busy, too. Thor found them exceedingly boring. Well, councils could be boring, but they were the way to learn how to rule, how to fully understand how the State worked, what and whom a prince’s mind should be busy with. Loki excelled at politics, and Odin knew it, even if he never admitted it out loud, probably out of reticence.

Training occupied him during his leisure time. He trained his seiðr, of course, mostly with Frigga. He was also very well-practiced in hand-to-hand knife combat, which he loved, and missed. He highly doubted Eyð would allow him to throw daggers in her farm.

He read and studied a lot, and liked some Miðgardian disciplines, such as Greek and Roman rhetoric, for it suited his silver-tongue, and particularly favoured Cicero’s use of periodic sentences. Quousque tandem abutere, Domina, patientia mea? How long now, mistress, will you abuse my patience? he sometimes thought as a pastiche, when she was particularly stubborn, or when she innocently teased him and he had to use all his self-control not to kiss her into submission. However, she had neither challenged him, neither tempted him for more than a week. She had rather behaved like an empty shell, since he killed the seal. It worried him.

“Why do you say so?”

“I sometimes feel –“

She stopped in the middle of her sentence, watching her nails.

“I feel like I have nothing to hope for.”

They were inside the house, after a quick midday lunch. The dim light of the house made him think that the night had fallen already, but they might have another two hours of light.

Eyð needed a distraction.

She had kept herself secluded inside, sometimes sitting idly beside the fire, mostly busy with women’s tasks such as spinning wool, weaving, or sewing.

Loki rose and went to the door. Half-opening it, he had the good surprise to see blue sky, and decided for a stroll.

“Come with me, mistress. Let’s enjoy the sunny spell”, he said cautiously, swiftly walking back to her.

She refused with a tired shake of her head.

“Come, it will do you good.”

“No.”

He crouched in front of her and covered her hand with his own, making her turn her eyes to him.

“I insist.”

“Why must you always –“

“Come now, mistress, you would be bored to no end if I didn’t challenge you”, he chuckled lightly, hoping to alleviate her sombre mood.

She sighed and stood slowly, and he mimicked her.

“Orla, where’s my cloak?”

The old woman set aside the braid she was card-weaving, grabbed the heavy garment and wrapped it around her mistress’ shoulders before handing her a nålbinded hat. Loki put his cloak, too, a hideous greyish thing he hated and was reluctant to admit was efficient against the cold, and headed to the front door.

She followed him outside, blinking in the sunlight.

“We don’t need to go far. Let’s just have a stroll down to the beach.”

“No, not the beach”, she answered quickly, her eyes widened with something painful.

He nodded for himself. How could he forget that she might be afraid of going there, after that frightful night? After her hopes being crushed by the sight of the dead seal? He felt disgusted by himself.

“Of course. The cliff, maybe?”

“Yes.”

“That’s perfect.”

His answer was purely rhetorical – polite – of course. What could be perfect on this nearly barren island that was likely his jail?

However, as they walked in a silence he found almost comfortable, he couldn’t help seeing grandeur, majesty even, in the landscape. The black, high cliffs sprinkled with contrasting white snow, the slate-grey sea battering their feet, the tidal currents showing in dangerous waves, some seabirds flying and playing in the strong winds. Yes, this harsh country held its own beauty.

Wasn’t it selfishly perfect to spend some time alone with her, sad and tired as she was?

As they climbed a rocky path, he turned to her and held out his hand for help, for her long skirts hindered her movements. She accepted his offer, taking his hand, and something warmed in his chest. He didn’t let her go when the path became easier, and she didn’t try to take her hand back.

When her brother came with Ólafur, he found her in the highest spot of the cliff. Today, the strong, cold North winds wouldn’t permit it. She was too tired. She was too frail. So he decided for a lower point, one that was nestled in a shallow dell, where she could be more sheltered from the breeze. He chose a large, relatively flat rock covered with lichen and held his hand as an invitation to sit. He sat next to her when she obliged, absent-mindedly watching the ocean.

Loose golden curls were flowing from under her hat and her cheeks were rosy with the cold. And her lips, her lips –

Aware of his stare, she turned her face to him.

“What are you looking at?”

“I didn’t answer you”, he said lowly, turning his face straight ahead.

She kept silent, letting a calmness stretch between them.

“There’s always been a purpose to my life.”

“Please, don’t fret about it. It was nonsense.”

“Not at all.”

He kept silent a few minutes, too, thinking of his answer.

“I luckily never experienced mourning. I don’t know anything of the depth of your sorrow.”

She closed her eyes, letting a tear roll on her cheek.

“But I’m sure that your life, as hollow as it seems to you for now, has a purpose.”

She stubbornly shook her head, her eyes to the sky.

“What could it be?”

He wrapped his fingers around hers, intently looking at her, hoping she wouldn’t reject the contact. He slowly exhaled in relief as she kept still – still but not stiffened – allowing him to take her hand.

“The Nornir brought you on my way for a purpose.”

“To set you free”, she whispered with a side-look to his neck.

He smiled sadly.

“Yes. But – I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I’ve had time to think – you also –“

He was hesitant.

No. He felt shy.

Why?

It was so new.

Her quietness, her exhaustion moved him and impressed him all at once, and he feared her reaction. What would she say to his confession?

But her lips were closed, and she merely was waiting for him to speak, a flicker of curiosity in her sad eyes.

“You know how to handle me. How to keep me in line.”

She smiled, letting a loud exhale through her nose, a suppressed laughter.

“Come now, Loki. I can barely handle myself. How could I manage to keep you, the very god of Chaos, in check?”

“Don’t laugh at me”, he whispered, averting his eyes, a pang of sharp hurt stabbing his chest like a dagger.

She wasn’t the first to mock him, to reject him. After all, he was so different from everyone, with his black hair, slender frame and witty brains. With his tendency to snap cruelly at people, only to keep them at bay. He was the one to blame, after all, the one who always played aloof, because it was easier than allowing people to get close, and take a risk to be hurt by them.

He was surprised to feel her other hand on his, and met her honest gaze when he turned to her.

“I wouldn’t laugh at a god. I just – felt you were trying to flatter me to make me smile –“

“Because I’m the god of Lies?”

Her cheeks flushed at bit more and she blinked a few times.

I knew it, he thought bitterly. He was the untrustworthy god of Lies. The Sly one, as her brother had called him when narrating his myths. Ormstunga-Loki.

“Because you’ve been kind and attentive to me.”

Her eyes were hard – she was hurt. He had hurt her by implying she didn’t trust him. But it was true, wasn’t it? Didn’t she have any right to distrust him, after he so cruelly proved to her that her husband couldn’t be hidden inside the seal?

“Now who’s flattering who?” he whispered teasingly.

“Jól is in two weeks’ time”, she said, changing subject. “I have taken my decision. We’ll stay here and feast among ourselves.”

“Won’t your brother want you with him?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t have any boar to sacrifice to Freyr. Do you think the god would be happy with a goat?”

He didn’t like Freyr, a handsome, utterly pleased-with-himself twit. And Freyr didn’t like him in return. He felt totally indifferent about what could please the god of Fertility – but it mattered to her.

“Yes, I think it will do.”

“I’ve been thinking, too. I want it to be private. So when I make my offering to Freyr, I will set you free with the blood sacrifice.”

He slowly nodded, considering what she said. She admitted she had a plan for him. Admitted she didn’t forget about opening the shackle.

“Do you think it could work?”

“I do hope so”, he whispered.

“But could it work?”

He cautiously glanced at her. Her eyes reflected a genuine mix of honesty, curiosity and concern. Why should she feel concerned about it? He decided to answer honestly, too.

“I don’t know. You’re not a völva.”

“But as the mistress, I’m used to perform sacrifices.”

Loki watched his feet thoughtfully. They both kept silent until he knew what to say.

“I’ve been thinking about it, too. The witch likely used her daughter’s virgin blood to curse me. Reversing the curse might require feminine blood, too.”

“Like – “

“It’s a curse to avenge defloration. It’s tied with womanly anger.”

“Why did you take the girl in the first place?”

He exhaled a bitter sigh. He had asked himself this very questions a large number of times since he wore the collar.

“Lust, boredom, call it what you want.”

“You don’t look like the kind of man who’s lacking self-control, though.”

He gave her a side-glance, and smirked at the dark blush that crept to her cheeks.

“I mean – I wouldn’t dare comparing a god to a man – I’m sorry I spoke out of my mind –“

He shook his head with a tired smile and a soft wave of his hand. She was right. He didn’t lack self-control, and just had the proof under her eyes, although she was completely ignorant of it. The way she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her flushed cheeks, the loose curls escaping from under her hat and flying around her face in the wind, her mix of sincerity, timidity and strong will – all of it made him want to press her flush against him and kiss her. He desperately attempted to push back the thought of her lips against his. She wasn’t returning any sign of wanting him, and would have no reason to, since she was still mourning her detestable husband.

“Why do you care about unshackling me?” he eventually whispered.

***

Eyð felt exasperated at his insistence, at first, for she didn’t really want to deal with him after he had ruthlessly crushed her feeble hope that Ásgeir could be alive in another body.

She had felt so empty at first that she barely had enough strength to leave her bed, her exhaustion getting the upper hand on her. After a few days, Orla had forced her to get up and come in the skáli, where she, in fact, sat idly and gazed in the air. She knew she scared Kormakur, but the two women were kind and compassionate with her. Ronan didn’t hide his deep worries.

As for Loki, he observed her with a silent anger burning in his eyes.

Her weakness must be the cause of his restrained wrath.

For once, she felt relieved that he slept in the house, for whenever she felt compelled to speak to him at night, the proximity of the other sleepers dissuaded her to exit her room. She particularly dreaded Orla’s judgement, and feared being caught like a child doing naughtiness.

So today, when he played pleasant to coax her into having a stroll with him, an unsettling feeling of wariness urged her to refuse.

He was so fickle. So untrustworthy.

And yet, she had chosen to keep him, had chosen to cast away the two warriors who should have protected her from him. She had willingly and consciously exposed herself to danger, and had to take responsibility upon her behaviour.

She dreaded to go back to the shore. Memories of this awful night – and of the next morning – still haunted her. But the cliff was safe.

Why did she ask this question in the first place? Why did she have to speak her thoughts out loud, especially to him? Now, he was starting to investigate her feelings and the ‘depth of her sorrow’, as he called it. Good luck, she thought bitterly, it’s a bottomless pit.

Of course, he wasn’t one to be easily deterred. When he mentioned the Nornir, bringing the very Fate in the discussion, she could only think of his will to be unshackled. So when he confessed that she had any control over him, she evidently thought he was flattering her and encouraging her with kind words, because she didn’t feel able to do so. And each time she had to handle his unpredictable behaviour, he required so much energy that she felt drained afterwards.

And, unpredictable as he was, he took umbrage of her smile.

“Don’t laugh at me”, he whispered.

It was troubling. He was a god. Why would she laugh at him? Who would laugh at him? What – how many? – painful remarks did he endure to say so? He turned his gaze to the ground as he pronounced the words, as if facing her was too difficult, as if it hurt him. She wrapped her hand around his, wanting to reassure him. He looked so vulnerable.

“I wouldn’t laugh at a god”, she said softly, managing to draw his eyes back to her.

Did I not promise to show deference when we are alone? she thought, not daring to speak the words out loud, trying to make her thoughts show in her gaze.

“I thought you were flattering me – to make me smile.”

His answer caught her off guard, his sharp tone slicing through the layers of warmth she intended to show him.

“Because I’m the god of Lies?”

She could only blink back sudden tears, feeling a hot blush creeping to her cheeks under the implied insult. You don’t trust me. You only define me by my lies.

Did she trust him?

Well, not always. But she had come to learn that he was, indeed, reliable. That he could mean something he said and speak in earnest.

“Because you’ve been kind and attentive to me.”

And it was true. He had been harsh and cruel, for sure, but he had also comforted her and shared confessions. He had looked after her in a way no one had since – longer than she could recall.

His thin, bitter smile was painful. He didn’t believe her. Liar, this smile screamed, whereas it was perfectly polite.

Eager to avoid a fight, she chose to speak about something else. So she explained that she had taken the decision of staying in her farm for Jól, instead of joining her brother’s household for a larger feast. There were many reasons for that.

First of all, she didn’t want to expose her grief to the crowd, and favoured her quietness by far.

She wanted to try and free the Dark god with the blood of a sacrificed goat, if he thought it could work.

And last, she was determined to try another type of sacrifice if the blood proved to be inefficient.

Because Loki wanted her.

It was flagrant. She wasn’t a maiden anymore and knew what a man’s desire looked like.

He watched her with a lingering hunger in his eyes. When he carried her after he killed the seal, she first thought that it was for protection, that it was because she was being weak. But the way he stared at her after he deposited her on her bed persuaded her of the contrary. That night, she waited, watching him with uncertainty, expecting him to enter her bed and take her. She wouldn’t have resisted him, formidable as he looked. As he didn’t move, she managed to finally turn her back to him, fearing a sudden burst of anger at her silent rejection. Nothing came, and he only withdrew in the skáli.

Her mother once told her that, in ancient times, when winters were particularly harsh and cold, people sacrificed a woman to the god of Chaos. That a woman was offered to him to placate him, and that their coupling would ensure the surviving of the community.

If the blood-sacrifice had no effect, she was seriously considering to try another type of sacrifice to the dark god, intimidating as he was, in the hope that it could both propitiate him and set him free. A sacrifice that she already dreaded, but was determined to make.

And just as she was seriously considering this particular sacrifice, he spoke about the blood again. About the virgin’s blood used for the curse that bounded him, and of the need of womanly blood to annihilate the magic.

This gave her another idea.

She was no virgin anymore, and the blood she lost after her baby’s birth had stopped, but maybe, when her menstrual blood came again, she could use it to fight the witch’s magic.

As he mentioned the feminine anger used to shackle him, she couldn’t help asking why he deflowered the witch’s daughter. After all, he knew a witch housed him for the night, didn’t he? He had already said he ignored the girl was a virgin until it was too late. What kind of virgin jumped into a stranger’s bed, really? There was something strange in the whole story.

“You don’t look like the kind of man who’s lacking self-control, though.”

As soon as the words passed her lips, she knew she had spoken to quickly, and blushed hard in embarrassment. The look he gave her – in the corner of his eye, a sparkle of mischief dancing in his green irises, made her blush further. What if her comment suddenly angered him?

“I mean – I wouldn’t dare comparing a god to a man – I’m sorry I spoke out of my mind –“

He chuckled, letting a mirthless laughter rumble in his chest. With a wave of his hand, he silently let her know that it didn’t matter.

When his eyes were on her again, they lingered on her lips. There was no mischief anymore in them, only this lingering hunger she had already noticed, and – was it sadness? It made her chest squeeze painfully.

“Why do you care about unshackling me?” he eventually whispered.

“You don’t belong here”, she answered carefully. “You are a god, and have nothing to do for long here. You need to go back to your kin.”

Now there was something warm in his eyes. Or did she imagine it? Why did it seem to fit the warmth she felt in her chest?

The shackle had been forged with a woman’s anger. Could it be that tenderness could open it?

“Let me try something”, she breathed, lifting her hand to his cheek, brushing it with her fingertips, leaning to him. He stiffened, holding his breath, and she tentatively pressed her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss, feeling his skin under her lips, inhaling his scent – his cold scent of winter. As he didn’t reject her, she moved slightly and kissed the corner of his lips, expectantly watching him. He closed his eyes, letting her do as she wanted.

Trusting her.

Placing another kiss on the corner of his lips, she placed her fingertips on the collar, mentally focusing on how much she wanted it to open.

It shimmered and emitted a soft humming sound, but didn’t burn them.

It kept locked, though.

She just failed again, and drew back slightly, fear creeping in her veins.

She dreaded Loki’s reaction. His lack of patience and sudden anger.

But he only breathed out with a sad smile, watching her with darkened eyes.

“It was a nice idea.”

Chapter Text

Your love is cold, distant and shy
You think no one deserves your time
Precious, Pristine, you look so clean
But too much make-up will stain your dress

'Cause all is in your eyes, all is in your eyes
And I know my tongue will make your mind

'Cause you're ready for love

Ghinzu, Cold Love

XIII.

“It was a nice idea.”

He truly enjoyed the light kisses she gave him. He closed his eyes to relish in the lightness of the moment.

But as soon as he opened them and saw her rosy lips that she worried in embarrassment, he felt a dark fire spread wildly in his veins, that he desperately tried to ignore, for lack of really being able to push it back. Yielding to his instincts would be dangerous. Dangerous for her, for he might treat her roughly. This, as much as he craved it, was to be saved for another time, when she would be ready and pliant for him. Because she would be his, sooner or later. She had to be warned, for her own good.

He swallowed and inhaled deeply to control himself.

“However, you shouldn’t do anything of the sort anymore, unless you’re ready to face the consequences.”

And the consequences he mentally pictured. Eyð, stark naked and flush against him, clutching his shoulders. He, kissing and nibbling her neck, forcefully thrusting into her. He even could hear the lovely whimpers she would make.

Her eyes widened in what was likely fear.

He instantly felt his lungs and heart crush under the lead weight of self-loathing. He didn’t want to scare her, and yet – he had offered protection. Didn’t that include protecting her from himself? Wasn’t that the true meaning of his words? I could lay you down right here in the snow and hitch up your skirts to –

They had had a peaceful moment, though. They were able to chat without quarrelling. Must he always ruin everything by scaring her?

She ruined the moment with that kiss, something whispered darkly in his mind.

“I’m sorry”, she muttered. “I won’t touch you again without permission.”

“No, you shan’t”, he growled, and she bent her head.

“Forgive me.”

Her voice was but a whisper.

He watched her a few moments. She didn’t dare moving, and her shallow breath came out in short, white puffs soon blown away by the cold wind. He rose to his feet and straightened, reluctant to prolong her discomfort.

“Night will soon be over us. Let’s go back to the house.”

Their walk back was silent.

He went first and she followed him, quiet and careful, and when he turned to help her on the same rocky path where she allowed him to hold her hand earlier, she shot him a guarded gaze, gathered her skirts up to her knees and managed by herself. He clearly saw her heavy boots, knee-high thick socks, and caught a glimpse of what was further up – creamy white skin.

His mouth went dry.

Just you wait, you insufferable tease, he thought with a lopsided grin, and let her lead the way, just to be able to observe the sway of her hips under her clothes, and the way her long braid hit her back as she walked.

Sooner or later, he would have her whimpering beneath him. He would have her in every way, and make her forget she was once loved by another.

***

Loki wanted her. It was plain as day.

His darkened irises, his barely veiled threat. Unless you’re ready to face the consequences. She knew she wasn’t ready yet. She had just meant to give him a chaste kiss, to try to counter the witch’s wrath with tenderness.

In a way, it had worked. The shackle didn’t burst with burning magic. It didn’t defend itself against her, like the other times she had touched it. Her intuition was proved right.

In another way, it had failed. Her intentions were misunderstood, and for now, she wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Perhaps – probably – she would surrender to his desire. In the meantime, she would have to be careful and keep her distances with him.

The glance he shot her when she hiked her skirts up to climb down the rocks on the path made goose skin creep down her back, whether she wasn’t sure it was from fear or something else. His eyes were burning with unhidden hunger. Her throat constricted as she took the lead of the stroll, the fabric of her cloak brushing past him. She knew he watched her. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her.

She hurried, and heard his footsteps matching hers. It made her heart race in her chest.

Wasn’t it like being chased?

What was it that she felt in her guts and in her chest?

The sky was getting darker with heavy clouds in every minute, just as if the weather reflected the god’s mood. Just as if it reflected whatever fate the Nornir reserved her.

***

Time and days seemed to draw out to no end, just like his boredom. There was nothing to do except for sleeping, eating, feeding the beasts, checking that the roofs didn’t start leaking under the strong rains, and watching Eyð.

His eyes were always on her. He knew he was spectacularly failing at being subtle, and he found he didn’t care.

Orla surveyed closely that he couldn’t be alone with their mistress. The old hag had very much given herself the duty of acting like a chaperone for Eyð, which he found as hilarious as irritating.

Ronan teased him with the mistress’s beauty.

Even Kórmakur candidly asked if he was in love.

“Of course not”, he had scoffed with disdain at the grotesque question. “I’m just bored, and she would distract me.”

He evidently couldn’t tell the boy that he, a god, would not debase himself with falling in love with a mortal. The boy had pursed his lips, either disappointed or sceptic about the answer he got.

His watchful eye made her nervous. He could feel it, and it amused him as much as it aroused him. Her jittery glances, the way she kept busy with women’s tasks to have a slave close to her, it was teasing and frustrating. As much as in the first weeks of his presence she would work with him in the sheep pen, all the feeding and manure scraping was now in the men’s hands. Never would she be alone with him.

It was frustrating.

It kept him from sleeping at night, and he had to take care of his painful cock by himself in search of some relief.

One evening, Eyð offered him to play hnefatfl with her, and Orla scowled as he graciously accepted. She must be as bored as him to make such a proposition. He knew how to play, and was quite good at the game.

He let her win the first game, only to coax her. But she soon found out and chided him, demanding that he played fair.

“Letting me win is cheating, Hveðrungr. I have no interest in playing against a trickster.”

He gave her a sly grin at her using that name. She knew exactly what to say to tease him without revealing his divine nature to the household. Some days, he wondered if he should tell the slaves. Only to ensure their obedience. Maybe Orla would shut that old, scolding mouth of hers at last.

Hnefatfal was about war. He played the blacks, of course, and thus had to take her king. As she played the whites, she aimed to bring his king in one of her keeps, in each corner of the tafl.

He gave another meaning to the game, of course.

This was about conquering her, or letting himself being conquered.

They started another game over.

He attacked violently this time, and moved his pawns, one by one, to circle her king. She retreated at first, then countered his attack and took two of his pawns. He gave her a long look, watching her with hunger, ensuing to make her blush under his stare, smirking when a lovely shade of pink spread to her cheeks. She took a deep inhale and averted her eyes to the board. He waited, feigning to think about his next move, until she squirmed in discomfort.

Oh, but this was enjoyable.

As he moved a pawn, she focused on the board, slightly frowning in concentration. She still looked tired, it was true, but tonight there was no sadness in her eyes. Only concentration and twinkly defiance.

She exhaled, and lifted her hand to pick a pawn, halting her gesture midway. With a quick, unsure glance to him, she picked her king and moved it backwards to one of her fortresses.

He tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. This was piquing his interest. She was retreating. The way she worried her bottom lip confirmed that her nervousness was growing. She casted a glance at him just as he licked his lips, and her eyes went wide, her cheeks going a delicious shade of pink.

Just like a blooming flower, ready to be plucked.

He gave her his most charming smile as he moved towards her king, placing a second pawn next to it in order to cut off her retreat. She rewarded him with an irked glance. A few more moves, and he would win.

“What do I get when I win, mistress?”

He made sure to stress the last word in a sultry way, and had to bite back a laughter when he distinctively heard Orla choke. The old shrew was glaring daggers at him and he winked.

Eyð lightly cleared her throat.

“You’ll earn my compliments”, she answered, her tone perfectly cordial and mastered in spite of her blushing cheeks.

Well done, girl, he thought with mirth.

Little Ásgeir chose this very moment to boisterously manifest his growing hunger, and she smiled politely.

“I’m afraid we can’t finish the game tonight. What kind of a mother would I be if I let my child starve?”

“You’re a poor loser, mistress”, he chuckled as she rose, her face composed with feigned indifference. She almost could have deceived him. Almost, weren’t he the god of Lies and Deceit, and thus noticed her quick breath and the way she nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She picked her son in his cot and sat, her back to him as she untied the string of her shirt to nurse the baby.

***

Eyð needed a respite. A respite from this dark, handsome god. From his teasing and charming smiles.

She knew what he was trying to do.

Her mind was reluctant – wasn’t she nursing a very, very young orphan? Didn’t she often cry, thinking of her dear defunct? And yet, she felt that her body betrayed her.

She blushed several times during the game, and the heat of her cheeks seemed to spread all over her body, making her quite uncomfortable in her own skin.

She didn’t feel ready at all, and yet, she felt that she longed to be touched, to be cared for.

But was it what he was offering? Was it what he was looking for?

She took great care to turn her back to him as she sat with her son and pulled at the knotted string of her gathered shirt. She wanted to hide from him. Of course, he had already seen her breastfeeding the baby, but tonight, after he’d been so cheeky with her during the game, she wanted some privacy. She feared to show her skin, not wanting him to think she could display her body for him to have a good look. Not that she was ashamed, a body was just a body.

Well, his was particularly pleasing to the eye, if she must admit, but –

As little Ásgeir took her nipple between his toothless gums and suckled, she lightly shook her head to herself in silent self-disapprobation.

Such thoughts were useless.

The god would be gone by spring, whether she managed to unshackle him or not.

Despite his wearing the collar, she didn’t consider him her þræll since long. Even if she didn’t managed to unfasten it, she would present him as a hostage, a guest, and thus justify the freedom she already granted him. But she really wanted to free him, because he would not be deprived of his magic anymore and would recover his godly capacities. He had promised to let her alive. He had promised that she was not the one he wanted to kill to avenge himself.

Well, the offer was quite relieving, she thought bitterly. She had fed him, always granted him a dry shelter and a proper hygiene. She always treated him like a human being, never like an animal, as she had every right to, since he was in thraldom. As soon as her brother said that he was a hostage of high lineage, she chose to treat him decently. She gave many proofs of her good will. And in return, he accepted to protect her.

And she indeed benefited of his protection.

Untrustworthy as he was, he was true to his word.

He protected her from her husband’s warriors, beating Arni into unconsciousness, standing for her when the two men complained to her brother that she was unjustly sending them away.

He protected her from herself, first when she fell asleep, exhausted, after Ólafur’s odious proposal, then when she carelessly went to the beach in the dead of night.

  He made her feel safe, holding her in his strong arms, whispering soothing words in her hair.

And he was charming, there was no denying it. His green eyes were the shade of a cresting wave when the sun shone through it, and his smile, his smile was – all at once warm, disarming, wolfish. Dangerously charming. Dark and intimidating as he could be, he was no less beautiful, and she sometimes couldn’t help comparing Ásgeir to him.

Ásgeir was solar. Honest, warm, comforting. Easy to live with.

Loki was spectacularly different. Dark, cunning, disdainful, intimidating. Trying and challenging.

And yet, she found that she was drawn to this particular kind of darkness. Because, if she was fully honest with herself, his insolence and intelligence gave her something to fight.

Because, had he been pliant and submitted, she wouldn’t have bothered to notice him and would have hopelessly sunk in her sorrow and despair.

She bit her bottom lip to control a smile and sighed through her nose.

Frigga, help me.

Orla came and sat next to her, mending socks. She sat with her face to the god, casting regular glances at him. Surveying him. This time, Eyð couldn’t hold back a grin, and the old, faithful slave shot her a glare.

“You know you shouldn’t trust him”, she said, her voice low.

Eyð nodded, still grinning.

Yes, she was well aware of that.

And he just shifted his teasing to an entire different level. Now, this was about seduction, and she knew she wasn’t insensible to it.

She didn’t have much time to overthink it, though, because little Ásgeir released her nipple, having drank his fill, and was struggling to sit back on his own, showing discomfort.

“Shhh, don’t fuss, sweetie.”

She pulled the fabric of her shirt over her bare breast and moved her child flush against her, his chest against her shoulder, and rose, softly padding his back until he burped.

“Do you feel any better?” she said merrily, and he smiled to her, letting a content sound that made her heart warm.

She hugged and kissed the little boy, managing to both hold him and tie back the neck of her shirt.

Melkorka came to softly ask what she wanted to eat tonight. The woman was of great help, and she was glad to have her. She worked hard, didn’t complain, and had expressed gratitude at being treated fairly.

Eyð gave her a few instructions.

“There is something I’d like to test”, she mused out loud, thinking of a few lamb fillets that she had cautiously salted and spiced with wild thyme before hanging them in the drying shed. She had prepared the meat for the Jólablót. Since the festival was very near, she wanted to test it, to know if it was ready. 

So she handed her son to Orla, whose mild protests stopped when the boy shot a perfect, toothless grin to her, and grabbed a thick shawl before exiting the house. She wanted to choose the meat herself and couldn’t send any of the women in her place.

Protecting the flame of a grease lamp with her hand, she quickly made her way to the drying shed, opening the door with a push of her shoulder and closing it with a foot.

Pieces of meat were hung to the cellar. Legs, shoulders, ribs. The meat was left here to dry and slowly ferment in the cold air.

She spotted the four fillets she had cured with care, and unhung one, taking it by the iron hook that was stabbed through it. Three would be enough for the Blót. She blew the flame, not needed light anymore to go back to the house. She could find her way when it was pitch black, and tonight, the moon shone from time to time behind the cloud that were running with the wind.

Once outside the shed, she carefully pulled the door, and as she turned to the house, faced her dark god, standing motionless, his eyes fixed on her, and she gasped in surprise. In the moonlight, she could see his dark curls twirling wildly in the wind. He looked feral and predatory.

“You startled me”, she said as an excuse, but he kept silent.

“What are you doing?” she asked, growing uncomfortable under his fierce stare.

“Have to fetch dry peat”, he growled, panting.

For the fire, right. Did Ronan not take care of the task earlier in the day?

But – why was he breathing so hard? Why was he so tense?

The wind-pushed clouds covered the moon, and it went pitch-black. She couldn’t see him anymore, only being aware of his presence because of his raged breath. In the darkness, she suddenly felt a pair of strong arms close around her as he caught her up, maintaining her firmly, one around her waist, the other one across her back, the hand plunging in her hair to keep her in place, and at once, his lips were on hers, steady and firm, demanding and domineering.

She gasped for air, and the god took advantage, stroking her inner lip with his tongue.

There was no teasing in his kiss. Her devoured her, raw and brutal, and she didn’t fight him. It was all too sudden, and her mind went blank the moment his arms circled her, save from sensations. His warmth, his strength, his cold forest scent mixed with sweat and smoke.

If anything, she realized after a few seconds that her body was leaning in, that her lips and tongue started to move on their own volition to answer his kiss. He growled, like an animal, and the sound rumbled in his chest, so close, so close to hers. The hand that was around her waist snaked to her hip, the fingers curling to roughly grip her flesh through her clothes. He pushed her against the wall until she was flush against him and she couldn’t escape.

“Mistress, are you out there?”

It was Ronan’s hoarse voice.

With a muttered curse, Loki released his hold and withdrew swiftly, as quick as an eel.

The moon went out from behind a cloud, and Eyð blinked, bracing herself against the wall to catch up on her wobbly legs, but the god was nowhere to be seen. Just as if nothing ever happened.

If it weren’t for the sharp contrast of the cold wind and night chill on her body now that she didn’t feel his warmth, she could have imagined all of it.

Chapter Text

The Smiths, How Soon Is Now?

XIV.

That bloody fool of Ronan came outside just at the wrong time.

Or just in time, one could have said, for Loki knew, deep inside, he acted like he was out of his mind.

Leaning against the lathes of the drying shed wall, panting hard as he struggled to catch his breath and slow down his heartbeat, the god wondered what was fucking wrong with him.

Leaping on Eyð, caging her to prevent any escape and kissing her like his life depended on it wasn’t what he had in mind at all when he went out of the house to actually fetch some dry peat for the fire.

And as he saw her before him, with her wide eyes and rosy lips, his baser instincts took over, shutting his mind off so that he was reduced to a bestial being. To an animal.

This was not what she deserved.

This was not the protection he had pledged to her.

This was wrong, utterly wrong.

If Frigga saw him, if she ever knew about this, she wouldn’t even bother scold him. She would give him a pointed, silent stare, full of disappointed pity, and it was far worse than receiving an earful.

This was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

For Eyð.

He let a heavy sigh, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand.

He fucking had to get back on his feet and keep away from the girl. Easier said than done, since they now lived in nearly permanent darkness and gathered near the fire pit, for the heavy clouds darkened the few hours of daylight and the strong gale forced them inside the house.

This meant that he was in the same room as her during several hours.

Seeing to the sheep and cows was of little respite, but still, feeding the animals would provide him with a few moments of welcome solitude.

But for now – for now, his cock was painfully hard and waiting for attention, and his blood was still humming with the desire that blinded him a few seconds ago, as he held Eyð’s lithe body against his. He couldn’t decipher if she responded his eagerness or if she pushed him away in a desperate manner, as each of her hands held something.

Probably – no, likely – the latter.

Still, didn’t she kiss him back? He was under the impression that she responded – but – it must be impossible, and he was surely mistaken by the brutal desire. No right-minded woman – no right-minded mortal – could reasonably mix with the god of Chaos.

But now, he knew how she felt under his hands. How her long, thick, burnt-gold mane enveloped his fingers in its warmth. How the soft curve of her breasts seemed to perfectly match his chest. How sweet and pulpy her lips were under his.

By the Nornir.

Get a grip on yourself, Loki.

He forced himself to breathe deep and slow. Once. Twice.

Calm down.

Fetch the bloody peat and go back inside.

She would be there, probably scared of him. They would be back to the first weeks after his arrival, when she feared him and pretended that he was an insignificant slave. He didn’t mind it, back at that time, because his anger and desire of revenge consumed any other thought.

But now, as much as he longed to be free from the collar and be able to avenge himself from those who dared to wrong him, he longed to sharing moments with Eyð. To talk to her. To make her smile. To touch her, and not only to comfort her.

Loki shook his head to himself.

He had to face the truth. He was well and truly fucked.

***

Eyð rushed inside the house, her cheeks burning and chest heaving, trying her best to look calm when she was only flustered on the inside.

“Are you alright?” asked Orla, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Oh. The old witch had a perceptive eye. She managed a rather convincing smile, even though she immediately noticed that she was using Loki’s words. Never before had she mentally called Orla a witch. He really was bad influence.

“Yes, it’s just getting difficult to walk with this wind.”

The old slave nodded and hummed, whether she was convinced or not.

“Here”, added Eyð, “let’s try the cured lamb. I want to know if it’s ready to eat.”

Ronan approached, rubbing his old, chapped hands with a gluttonous giggle.

“Such a nice treat!”

He gave her a warm smile that she responded. The man was kind and devoted to her. He grabbed a platter for her to lay the meat upon, and handed her a knife that she took with a gracious smile.

“It’s nice to see you smile again, mistress”, he said as she started to slice the cured meat.

She very well knew it has to do with Loki’s kiss. As much as he had been feral and aggressive, it had been wonderful to be held in his arms, to feel his strength and warmth. The firmness of his lips lingered on hers like a light, pleasant burn. And she felt – strange. There was a strange sensation in her belly.

It was like the foam carried on a sandy beach, the light bubbles brushing the black sand and fizzling on it. She felt the same light fizzle in her insides, which she recognized as a spark of desire, and she bit the corner of her lip at the thought.

Was it possible? Was it possible that she desired him, the very god of Deceit, who threatened to strangle her, who spoke evil of her husband, who was so cruel with her? A man – no, not a man – so sombre and aloof he might be made with the very material of Night itself?

It was a scary thought.

Yet it could make her sacrifice scheme easier by far.

She shook herself out of her thoughts, though, and finished her task before picking a slice of meat and taking a bite.

It was dry, but not too much and thus not hard under the teeth, and savoury. Deliciously salted and flavoured with thyme. She nodded in approval and Orla took it as an allowance to fill the plates for the whole household.

“Where is Hveðrungr?” Eyð said.

He had not come back yet. What could he be going outside in the cold night?

Just as Orla grumbled something unintelligible, the door opened and Loki’s tall frame came in, his arms loaded with a large basket full of dried peat clumps. He put the basket on the floor, near the wall, and wiped his hands on his trousers before pushing his dark curls backwards in a gesture that made her unvoluntarily press her thighs together.

Loki kept his eyes elsewhere from her, though.

He picked some pieces of peat and placed them in the fire pit, watching as smoke rose.

Never looking at her.

His eyes were carefully averted from her, set on the floor, on the fire, on the plate Melkorka was handing him.

And it was like a dagger slicing through her guts.

Why didn’t he look at her just after he kissed her like he devoured her? Because it was very much what they must have look like. A starved wolf and – did it make her his prey?

He had kissed her, shoved her against the wall with passion, kneaded the flesh of her hips through her dress, and she hadn’t pushed him back. And now, he didn’t even bother to bestow her a glance.

What was this new cruelty?

Did she do something wrong?

Did she not, perhaps, meet his expectations?

Or was he toying with her, only to torment her?

He kept withdrawn to himself, grunting when Ronan spoke to him, darker and more aloof than ever. She pretended to walk around the skáli to cradle her son in her arms, and stopped by him. He was sitting on a stool, his eyes carefully straining on the food that filled the plate resting in his lap.

“Is something the matter?”

“Nothing at all.”

His answer was barely a grunt through gritted teeth.

“Really?”

He rose on his feet, put his plate on his stool, and brushed past her.

“Need to pee.”

A heavy load was now crushing her chest. Gone were the fizzling sparks that made her skin tingle, and she felt like the wind outside was howling with her own turmoil. Never had he been so rude with her. Even when they carefully managed to maintain a truce between them, never did he avoided her like this.

Going back to her chair, she sat back with her son in her lap. She silently played with her food for a while, but finished with setting her plate down – anyway, the food now tasted like ash – and passed in her room. Its darkness suited her mood quite well.

She undressed swiftly and got under the covers with the baby. The little boy suckled at her breast until he fell asleep, his fingers tangled in her hair. His presence soothed her.

Melkorka helped her a lot and made motherhood easier. She felt her love for her son grow stronger each and every day.

Tonight, though, she felt so sad the small trusting being couldn’t alleviate her mood.

She couldn’t understand why Loki’s behaviour changed so suddenly.

What she understood was that she shouldn’t hope anything from him. He was fickle, and cruel, and playing with her. But, as stupid as it was, she already missed him. Missed his body against hers.

What was wrong with her?

***

The day after felt just the same.

Loki seemed to make up new tasks to do, only to avoid staying in the skáli with the lot of them.

“He’s restless”, commented Ronan cheerfully.

He’s avoiding me, Eyð thought bitterly.

Yet, as he came back to have his midday lunch, he answered her comments politely, casually, as if nothing happened. He didn’t behave rudely like the evening before. But his perfectly controlled features and calm eyes didn’t deceive her.

He was lying. He was lying to the slaves, because they didn’t know him as well as she did, supposing that she could get to know him at all.

He was not even bothering lying to her, because she could see right through his schooled demeanour. To her, it was no lie. It was punishment.

A punishment for her presumption. Because she was unworthy of him, but had answered the kiss all the same.

Well, she was a mortal, after all. Had he not reminded her of her condition, in the first times of his – how should she call it? Captivity? Staying?

Lowering her head in obedience, feigning to accept the chastisement he had imagined, she took her distance with him and tried to keep her composure. Looking sad was not a problem by now. The difficult part was not to look worried and hurt by him.

As soon as he finished his plate, Loki rose and muttered something about getting back to his tasks. She pressed her lips in a thin line. Well, at least, her farm would be well-kept if he worked like this every day from now on.

Orla came and took a seat next to her to mend socks in the firelight.

“Are you sure you want to stay here for the Jólablót, mistress?”

Eyð gave an annoyed sigh.

“Yes, I’ve already told you. I don’t feel like drinking and dancing in a crowd.”

“It could do you good, though. You don’t have to stay here on your own.”

“I’m not alone”, she lied unabashedly, for she felt particularly lonely today.

Orla gave her a pointed look, and she averted her eyes.

Melkorka took a stool and went close, too, little Ásgeir resting in her lap.

“I do agree with Orla, mistress”, whispered the woman.

Oh, this was new. Never did Melkorka dare speaking when she wasn’t spoken to, and never did she dare speaking her mind.

“Speak.”

Her voice was sharp, and had an annoyed edge. Melkorka casted a worried glance to Orla, who nodded in encouragement.

“We both think –“

The woman interrupted, blushing, and bit her lips, her head ducking in shyness. She cleared her throat to continue when she realized that Eyð was waiting for her to speak and didn’t intend to punish her for thinking.

“We thought to ourselves that you might not be safe here, in the darkest days of the year. Not with him.”

Oh.

She was talking about Loki, undoubtedly.

“Why so?”

The slave gave her a quick glance.

“Because he’s dark, and scary, and –“

She gulped heavily.

“– and unnatural.”

Ah. This.

Eyð wondered briefly if she said something that betrayed his divine nature. Did she call him by his true name in front of her slaves?

“What do you mean, ‘unnatural’?”

“He’s not a man. I mean, he’s not a man like us.”

Eyð raised her brows as in disbelief and snorted.

“Please, listen to her”, pleaded Orla.

She didn’t answer, only giving her a bored stare, and let a long exhale through her nose.

“In my country, we sometimes happen on Elves or the ancient gods, the Tuatha De Dannan.”

“And?”

“He looks like them.”

“Like Elves?” Nonsense.”

“It’s just – he – he’s strong, so very strong. And regal. And cruel. And unnaturally beautiful.”

If those were the criteria of being a god, so yes, Loki was a god. But she could name at least a man or two whose beauty could match Melkorka’s description. One of them, particularly, had very handsome features that made women very jealous of his wife.

“Nonsense all the same. You might know Eyvind? He’s very much a man, no matter how strong and pretty he is.”

The woman stubbornly shook her head.

“It’s not the same. I feel it. The dark-haired thrall is mean. He scares me.”

“The Jól festival is only in a few days”, insisted Orla. “You should go to Árnafjørður. Your brother could keep you safe.”

“Safe from what? What could he possibly want? To kill us all and eat our hearts to celebrate the solstice?”

A deep, hearty laugh echoed from the cowshed, and the two slaves turned with a jolt. Eyð closed her eyes and shook her head in disappointment. Of course, the god of Deceit had to be cleaning the muck out of the byre, and had heard them through the planked wall. His godly hearing might not even have required any particular effort from him.

The three women glanced at each other, and Melkorka blanched when they distinctively heard the door of the byre. Just the next moment, he was there, in front of them in the skáli, casually resting his arms on the staff of his fork, watching them with mischievous eyes.

“I could very well eat your heart, mistress”, he purred. “But I think I’d start” – and he lazily pointed a finger to Orla –  “with the old hag’s.”

Melkorka jumped on her feet and hastily retreated against the opposite wall.

“You are right to fear me”, he added, glaring at the woman. “You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I am capable of. I’m mean. I’m evil” – and he stressed the word. “When you have a nightmare, know I cursed it upon you. Don’t approach me, don’t talk to me, don’t even think of me unless you want the wind to catch you and throw you off the cliff and down to the sea.”

Both Orla and Melkorka gasped in fear. He took advantage and marched on them, looking imperious and regal.

“You really have no clue of who I am, do you?”

Melkorka feebly shook her head.

Did he want to reveal his true identity? She hadn’t betrayed it since they made their deal in the byre. But if he chose to tell the women about his godly nature, well, it was his decision.

“Hveðrungr, don’t –“ Eyð tried to interrupt him, only to be stopped by a haughty hand raised to her in a wordless command.

“Enough with this name. My true name is Loki.”

“What?” croaked Orla.

“You heard me. Loki, god of Mischief, Deceit and Chaos. Miserably bound here on this barren island – for now.”

Melkorka squealed and turned her back to him in a weak attempt to protect herself. Orla went near to Eyð, whose heart warmed with her old slave’s loyalty.

“Enough!” said Eyð firmly. “I have nothing to fear about him”, she added to Orla.

The old woman obviously didn’t believe her, for her eyes were wide with fear.

“He usually barks more than he bites.”

He only gave her a dark look.

“Careful with your smart words, mortal”, he snarled.

Eyð held his gaze, never flinching. He was beyond infuriating. He hadn’t called her mortal in weeks, and the way he had treated her these last days decided her not to show respect nor obedience at all. Her jaw clenched, she lifted her chin with an air of defiance that only made him smirk.

“As much as I hate to admit it, the women are right”, he told with feigned amenity after a few seconds. “The Jólablót is to be celebrated with your family. I can take you to your brother’s if you want.”

This time, it was too much. His patronizing tone only fuelled her anger.

“Enough with your games!” she cried. “Everybody out!”

They both waited a few moments for the slaves to grab a cloak and go out. As soon as she was alone with him, she walked to him and hissed in his face.

“What are you doing?”

He only laughed.

“I am tired of your calling me Hveðrungr.”

“Stop it! You kissed me, and then you’ve been ignoring me, and now you think you can decide in my place? You have no right upon me!”

His mirth ceased at once, and he watched her with cold, hurt eyes. The masculine lump in his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He blinked only once, and a mask of casual indifference slipped on his handsome features. The well-practiced mask of the god of Lies. She instantly knew that it was useless. That there was nothing to be discussed anymore. He was withdrawing and wouldn’t speak openly.

“Yes, of course.”

His voice was measured, blank. Empty of any emotion. And Eyð felt a ripping pain through her chest, tearing her lungs and heart.

So fickle.

It doesn’t matter to him.

He doesn’t care at all.

She kept silent, gauging him, giving him a challenging stare. But nothing came. He didn’t say anything, didn’t explain anything. There was something amiss: never did Loki, the god of Mischief and Chaos – never did he resign before.

“Leave, Trickster.”

Eyð practically spat the nickname, only to hurt him, only to elicit a reaction from him. He only nodded.

“As the mistress wishes.”

He turned his back to her and motioned to the door with calculated obedience.

No. no.

Pain ripped her chest. Why was he going away? She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to stay with her, to gather her in his arms again, whether he’d be harsh or not. To have his eyes on her.

But it must just have been another game of his.

Maddening man. Maddening god.

She grabbed the closest wooden goblet and threw it to him, only to catch his attention again. It hit the wall just next to his head.

Too bad she missed him.

He spun to her, a strange glint in his eye, holding his breath. Was it anger? Was it hunger? It sent shivers down her spine and right to her lower back.

“Why do you do this? Why do you ignore me?” she hissed again.

“I told you, mistress. I’m dangerous. Just stay away from me, for your sake.”

And he went out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

Chapter Text

But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run

And it wears me out
It wears me out
It wears me out
It wears me out

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time
All the time

Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees

XV.

It was not unlike Asgard, now. Of course, the surroundings were still barren and desolated, the food was still distasteful, the house still lacked comfort, and Loki still badly missed his bathroom.

But now that he had revealed his true name and nature to the two female slaves a few hours ago, they kept away from him. They casted wary glances at him and kept murmuring between them. The best thing to do was to keep his distance and be happy with his own company.

So it was not unlike Asgard. Only a little gloomier. Loki was sitting on a large stone, his back to the dry-masonry paddock, his heavy felted-wool cloak protecting him from the snow that was falling.

Ronan came to see him, to know about what the women were saying. The old man interrupted his brooding contemplation of the landscape. Not that there was much to see, for the night was falling quickly and the atmosphere was a dark grey that the white clouds filled with snow couldn’t fight.

“Is it true, what they say? That you are a god.”

Loki quietly nodded to the old man. He didn’t want to scare him. The slave had always been kind with him and had a way to easily get along with people.

“Makes sense, then.”

“What?”

“They are nearly crazy with fear. They’re scared. Women always fear the gods.”

Loki grunted. Eyð didn’t fear him. Not anymore. She fought him, challenged him, and it only fuelled his desire for her. Never in Asgard did he find any woman who dared to stand proud and strong against him like his delicious little mortal.

Delicious?

By the Nornir, Loki, don’t ridicule yourself.

“The mistress isn’t afraid, though, you know.”

Loki gave a side look to the Irish slave. He remembered very well Ronan drawing his attention on Eyð’s beauty, the day they were in Arnafjørður to release Arni and Kolfinnr from her service. For some reason, the old man pictured them as lovers-to-be, and it was irritating to see him try and interfere.

“I know what you’re scheming, old man.”

Ronan giggled.

“I’m not scheming.”

“You’re not even subtle.”

The slave giggled more.

“You’re very devoted, are you?” Loki asked quietly.

“That I am. She treats me like an old uncle, not like an old fool of a slave. She’s sweet and kind.”

Loki agreed with a grunt. How badly did he want to know how sweet she was?

“Since you’re no slave, you could – you know”, offered Ronan with an evasive gesture of his old, chapped hand.

“What?”

“Go and talk to her. Make her happy. Maybe – kiss her?”

Kiss.

Flashes of that kiss surged into his mind. His brutality. His savageness. His lack of restraint filled him with self-disgust. If Ronan hadn’t come outside looking for her, what could he have been capable of? Take her right here against the wall? Force himself upon her? Yes, maybe.

“Aren’t gods supposed to take care of us Miðgardians?”

Loki snorted, a bitter smile on his lips, and leaned back against the paddock wall.

“I’m not that kind of god.”

“Oh, I know, but –“

“I toy with people, I lie to them, hurt them. Is this what you want for her?”

“No.”

“Good. In the end, I’d only make her cry.”

They sat in silence for some time. Loki didn’t mind Ronan staying with him. The old man was companionable and knew his limits.

They stayed here, watching the snow and the dark sky. The landscape looked like a grey colour chart, with large variations from white to blue-grey, to slate-grey, and to black. Just matching his thoughts and mood. Loki sighed, thinking he missed Asgard’s sun. This place wasn’t nearly as cold as Jotunheim, but –

“But you like her, don’t you?”

Loki sighed in annoyance. Would the man never cease his prattling?

“No, I don’t. I am a god, you are all mortals, and there is no reason for me to make friends, even less to commit with any of you.”

Ronan considered him a few seconds, a deep frown between his bushy brows.

“Are you – could you be afraid of committing with the mistress?”

“The mere idea of committing is beyond ridiculous”, Loki scoffed. “I am immortal. She’ll be dead in, let’s say, thirty years, at best. Why would I commit with such an ephemeral creature?”

He had quite successfully managed to push this idea out of his mind until now, but saying it out loud made it very real. It weighted instantly like a burden of lead on his shoulders. How could he live with the weight of it? How could he consider her death and sit still and imperturbable like this?

“Anyway, I’ll be gone by spring. Her brother thinks I’m a royal hostage and wants to trade me to my family. Setting sail with him would be quite the opportunity to leave this horrid place.”

Ronan shook his head and let a heavy sigh.

“Are you sure you’re the god of Lies?”

“Careful, old man”, he growled in warning.

“Right. Anyway, you’re not very perceptive.”

Did he think just a moment ago that Ronan was companionable? He just wished to sit in silence and be left alone to brew on the darkness of his thoughts.

“Shut up before you say something that you will sorely regret.”

“Oh, alright. You don’t want to talk about it.”

His patience was ominously weakening, and the old slave didn’t notice the danger looming over him.

“There is nothing to talk about. Now shut up or I’ll kill you without remorse.”

His voice was calm, perfectly controlled, and Ronan giggled at the threat as if it were only a dark joke. The man didn’t even have the slightest sense of self-preservation.

Loki lifted his face to the sky, silently calling Heimdall. In vain, as ever since he’d been caught by the witch. There must be something in the cursed shackle that shielded him from the Watchman’s sight.

He tried to reach for his seiðr, something he hadn’t tried for weeks not to exhaust the tiny spark he felt inside him, and could only feel his magic hum in his veins and tingle his fingertips.

Fuck.

He clenched his teeth bitterly.

This, added to the now tedious conversation of Ronan, was requiring amounts of patience he didn’t know he possessed. Had he been in Asgard, he would have – had he been in Asgard, this conversation wouldn’t even have had a beginning. There was no point dwelling in nostalgia. He was stuck here, in a bleak archipelago in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by cold waters and blown by harsh winds. His survival made no doubt. But he had to break the shackle and leave. He had to. For his sanity.

“What is it like?” Ronan asked.

“What?”

“Being a god. What is it like?”

He shrugged.

“Well, it has its perks. Food, comfort. Power.”

Ronan smiled.

“What about the mighty Thor, your brother? Isn’t he looking for you?”

That was a question he had been asking himself for some time. Was even Thor looking for him? Did he really want Thor to rescue him, and give him an opportunity to tell the tale about his own helplessness, about his enslaving? To tell his friends about the time he found Loki, god of Mischief, a fork in hand, scraping the manure out of a cowshed, a scowl the only evidence of his disapproval? No. No, he very much preferred handling this on his own, thank you. Better be stuck here a few more months than endure the ridicule the big oaf would undoubtedly point to anyone.

“I doubt it. He is used to my wanderings. I haven’t been away for so long that the royal family could be worried about my missing.”

“You don’t want to talk about this either?” asked Ronan, and he rose to his feet and rearranged his cloak around his old body. “Alright, handsome, I’ll let you moon about on your own. But remember: don’t hurt the mistress.”

Loki sighed once more and clenched his teeth. Picking a small stone, he threw it at the old man, strong enough to hit him in the shoulder, not strong enough to hurt him.

“Ouch! How mean of you!”

He tuned Ronan’s croaking voice off and leaned against the stone wall, letting the darkness of his thoughts fill his mind.

Don’t hurt the mistress.

What about making her my mistress?

No.

Wasn’t he a prince? A god? Wasn’t he supposed to have the right to take what he wanted? The thought was appealing, though. So what was he feeling? Misgivings? Scruples? Wasn’t it a brand new feeling with a woman?

What was causing such feelings?

The answer was easy.

Her innocence. Her good heart.

And his own lingering feeling of unworthiness.

Nonsense. As a Prince of Asgard, as a god, he was very much worthy of anyone.

But still. He felt that he had treated her in an ill manner. Hadn’t he threatened to strangle her? And worse, hadn’t he relished in her terror, that very night, as his fingers were wrapped around her delicate throat? Hadn’t he spoken of her husband in an unforgivable way, even though she was deeply mourning? Hadn’t he felt a cruel pleasure at skinning the seal only to demonstrate that her stubborn belief of her husband turning into a seal was not only stubborn, but stupid? Exposing the guts of the animal to her did not make him cruel. It made him heartless.

And then, there was also the question of her nature.

Even if he came to have her, there could be no commitment. First of all, she was a Miðgardian, and Odin wouldn’t allow such a relationship. Moreover, being a Miðgardian, she was mortal. She was beautiful because she was young. How could he bear to see her aging? To watch white hair and wrinkles appear? To see her ill? And ultimately, how could he bear to see her die, while he would still be strong and glorious?

The answer was clear: he couldn’t.

There was only one solution.

***

“How long have you been knowing?”

Eyð shook her head in defeat.

“Almost since his arrival here.”

Orla scowled at her and crossed her arms.

“Don’t you scold me like that, old woman, you’re not my mother.”

“No, I’m not. But you are a liar. And I understand many things, now. Why you tolerated his insolence. Why you took great care to make a fine shirt for him. Why you allowed him to spend so much time with you.”

“So what?”

The old woman gave her a pointed look.

“Did he – have you?”

Eyð blushed furiously under the question.

“No.”

Her word was short, dry. She bit her lower lip.

“But if he wants to, I’ll let him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a god, and I can’t refuse him.”

“Eyð, you’re not –“

She cut the old, faithful slave. She knew the woman was speaking with her best interests at heart, but she wasn’t in charge of a farm and a household. She didn’t have any child to protect.

“Look, Orla. I know what I have to do. And if I have to be his whore to protect my son and my farm, then so be it.”

The old woman’s face wrinkled more in worry.

“It shouldn’t have to be this way.”

Sorrow fell on her shoulders like a cloak woven with lead. No, it shouldn’t. But how could they avoid living in this world? Life was hard, and only the strong survived. A widow with a baby and old slaves was easy prey, that much was clear.

“We have no choice. Ásgeir is dead. If his brother – if Arni – wanted to come and kill us all, who could prevent it? No one but Loki.”

Eyð bit her lips. She couldn’t open her mind to Orla. Couldn’t tell her everything. That she was still mourning her husband, but her body betrayed her. She needed to be held in strong arms. But not anyone’s arms. Ólafur, for example, wouldn’t do, and the very idea of being laid next to him made her shiver with repulsion. The idea of being next to Loki in her bed, of seeing his fair skin and taut muscles once more, on the contrary –

No. No.

Don’t think of him like that.

“But you chose to dismiss your husband’s warriors.”

She was well aware of her incoherent behaviour.

“Don’t accuse me. You know well that they didn’t do anything to earn my trust. They only sat idly and ate. It’s easier now they’re gone, and we save a lot of food. Loki works, at least.”

“Why do you always stand with him, even though you know who he is?”

Ah.

“I don’t know.”

And it was true.

How many times had Eyð asked herself this very question?

Why did she trust the god of Lies over Arni and Kolfinnr? Why did she support him when Melkorka and Orla spoke their fears a few hours ago?

And, on the contrary – why did he support her, against her husband’s warriors, and then in front of her brother?

There was something unsettling about them. They seemed to give their trust, only to take it back moments later. But the quiet evening they spent talking in the darkness of Tórmoður’s skáli, the tranquillity between them, what she thought was affinity – was it all but lies? She wanted so badly to trust him, in spite the warning signals that her mind sent her. His fickleness. His sly, calculated silences. The predatory look in his eyes.

“Do you want him?” Orla sake again.

“I don’t know.”

Lie.

She did well know.

And she did well know why she preferred lying, too. This, this she could tell the old woman.

“I’m afraid of myself.”

Orla sighed heavily.

“Frigga help you.”

***

In a lean-to out back the byre were stored a few tools that Loki had already used for various tasks. He quickly found what he was looking for: a tough pair of pincers that the farmer must use to cut the sheep’s hooves. He grabbed the whetstone and went to sharpen it before changing his mind. It was cold, and dark, and since he couldn’t help spending time with the mortals, the better was to go and sit by the fire.

He could hear the chatter of the women through the wooden door. As his opened it, they fell silent, their faces turned to him.

Never had he felt so much of an intruder in this farm. It made his blood stir with resent.

Orla and Melkorka stared at him, frozen in their activities. Eyð left her loom and went to the stove.

“Would you like some hot broth, Loki? It’s so cold out there.”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing had occurred. As if he hadn’t given her any reason to hold a grudge. He pressed his lips together and swallowed heavily.

“Yes, thank you.”

Placing a stool by the fire pit, he sat and set to work. Eyð swiftly gave him a bowl of steaming mutton broth with carrots, turnips and barley. It was hot and salty, and did him good. He drained it in a few gulps, not bothering the pleasant burn on his tongue, and gave the bowl back. She was still there next to him.

“Pincers? The hooves have already been cut out, haven’t they?”

“I want to get rid of this damned collar.”

“Loki – “

“You’re going to help me, woman.”

He didn’t bother to lift his eyes to her and feigned to be absorbed by his task, but he very well perceived the stiffening of her body.  Once again, he had hurt her with his harsh tone. Never did he call her woman, like a common peasant.

That’s a proof I’m not who she deserves.

“As you wish.”

He stopped in his tracks, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Why did she have to be infuriatingly kind to him, when he felt that all he deserved was a good slap across the face? Had she struck him, he wouldn’t have reacted.

He swallowed once again, and handed her the tool before tilting his head on one side and sliding his hair out of the way. It had grown too long since he had been caught.

“I’m afraid the collar will burn you like –“

“Go on.”

“I actually had another idea.”

“Just proceed”, he snapped.

She took a sharp inhale through her nose and placed the jaws of the pincers on the collar.

“Ready?”

A sharp burn, worse than the first time she had touched the shackle, told him she had applied pressure to cut it, and he couldn’t escape a heavy grunt. The pincers fell on the planked floor. He casted a side glance to her, and saw that she was cradling her hands on her chest.

Fuck.

The irritation he caught in her eyes prevented any words from him.

Chapter Text

You made a deal, and now it seems you have to offer up
But will it ever be enough? (Raise it up, raise it up)
It's not enough (Raise it up, raise it up)

Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights
It seems I've made the final sacrifice

We raise it up, this offering
We raise it up

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?

Florence + The Machine, Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)

XVI.

In a panic, he jumped on his feet, knocking the stool over, and caught her hands in his. They were radiating heat and he could feel the magic linger on her skin. She only shot him a wrathful glare and harshly drew her hands to her.

“Don’t you touch me!” she cried. “Damn you, Loki, I told you –“

Her rejection was hurtful. But he could handle it better than her sweetness and patience.

Orla came and wrapped her arm around Eyð’s shoulders, and he let the old slave push her gently towards a chair. She didn’t want him to help. She didn’t want anything to do with him. What just happen was a proof that he was dangerous to her, wasn’t it? It was his fault, entirely. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the collar, because he needed space, because – wasn’t she guilty too? He desired her so much, wasn’t she at fault, too?

“I need something cold”, she whined.

His guts clenched with pain. No, he was at fault there. He hurt her, and now he regretted his impatience so much! Oh, how he wanted to help her! How he needed to do something for her! If only she would let him near! How he hated himself for having exposed her to the witch’s magic! He clenched his fists and stood, frozen, unable to tear his gaze from her.

She was panting, trying to control the pain. It was his fault. Had he wanted her to hate him, he couldn’t have done better, could he?

Orla fetched a basin full of cold water and Eyð hissed as she plunged her hands in the liquid.

“It’s not enough. It won’t do – Loki”, she called softly, and he instantly was there, looking at her in worry and hope.

Eyð lifted her hands to him, offering them.

“Your hands are always so cold”, she said, and he wrapped his cold fingers around hers, making her sigh in relief.

“Bring a lamp”, he demanded, kneeling next to her to have a good look.

As soon as Kórmakur came with a grease lamp, he delicately turned her palms and opened her fingers. The skin was an angry red, the thumb and forefinger already blistering, and stretching her fingers was evidently painful. Fuck fuck fuck. He brushed her palm with his fingertips.

“I had no idea – I hope I can fix it”, he muttered, searching her gaze. “Allow me.”

She nodded and he closed his eyes, letting a long exhale through his nose to concentrate. There was only one solution to heal a magical burn. He had to reach for what little seiðr he felt in his veins.

He searched.

Here.

Here it was, a tiny green spark behind his closed eyelids. He relaxed his face and shoulders as best as he could, concentrating, focusing on the growing flickers he was feeling. He intertwined their fingers and brought their hands to his chest, making the seiðr pass through his skin to hers.

It was weak and he knew he wouldn’t last long, but it was better than nothing.

He tensed under the effort, his muscles trembling, his breath short and shallow, drawing on his reserves, draining them until he broke and let go of her hands, sitting heavily – collapsing? – on the floor, his chest heaving with exhaustion, not daring to look at her.

Orla examined Eyð’s hands, gasping with surprise.

He finally managed to catch his breath.

“How do you feel?”

“Better. They are still hot and numb, but –“

“The blisters are no longer there”, whispered Orla in awe.

“Good”, he breathed, totally worn out, resting his back against the wall.

***

It was cold. Cold and dark.

It was four days since the collar burned her and Loki healed her hands.

Today was the day of the winter solstice, the longest night, the darkest night.

But it was also a promise. The sun would be reborn, and with her, the light would come back, and longer days. It was a promise of spring and summer.

The solstice was a promise of hope.

So where was this hope that failed to bloom in Eyð?

She would normally have sailed to Árnafjøður, to join her brother and his family to celebrate Jól. She had chosen to stay here in Svínoy, in her farm, and celebrate her own sacrifice.

Everything was in order.

The strong ale had been brewed, the meat had been cured. The goat to be sacrificed was ready, too. The animal had been well-fed and kept clean, Loki had seen to it.

On the morning of the solstice, Eyð took a long bath and washed thoroughly, to wash the darkness away. However, she didn’t fool herself and knew that it was entirely metaphorical, for she felt as hollow and miserable as ever.

The tiny glimmer of aliveness that had sparkled in her chest when the Dark god had kissed her so passionately had been immediately crushed by the very same god. For her own good, he had the audacity to say. She didn’t try to make any effort with him anymore. She seldom caught his glances, but it was worthless trying to have those conversations she craved.

He never showed that he wanted to spend some time with her either. He wanted to leave. He kissed her fiercely, and then he went frantic with the idea of freeing himself in order to leave. It obsessed him so much that he made her use the pincers to cut the collar, and as was predictable, it didn’t work. Not only it didn’t work, but it burned him. And it burned her.

Eyð explained about the collar, and the slaves nodded their heads in silence, seemingly unsurprised with any magical item now that they admitted Loki’s divine nature.

Her hands were numb and clumsy for two days after he made her try to cut the shackle, even though he healed her. And Loki avoided her more than ever.

She tried her best not to think about the distance he kept. And failed every day.

She felt that, strange and unexplainable as it was, she missed him. It was like a hollowness gnawing at her lungs and guts, eating away what was remaining of her feelings.

Wasn’t it for the better? In any case he would be gone come spring, whether she unshackled him or not. She’d better not develop any kind of relationship with him. Politeness and formal words were likely sufficient.

Orla asked what quarrel was between them, why they both seem to brood and pout. The god had been careless and she was hurt, but he immediately fixed his error, didn’t he? Neither of them bothered to answer. There was no quarrel, Eyð only said. And it was true. There was no quarrel, only silence and no good will to go and speak to the other.

The atmosphere in the farm was affected by their distance, of course. The slaves were wary and nervous. The babies cried more often. Even Kórmakur, usually so joyful, didn’t laugh so often.

Eyð’s mood was morose, and the perspective of the sacrifice and feast didn’t make her cheer up.

After the midday lunch, Orla helped her to dress. She slipped a white dress with red embroidery edges, then her slave brushed her hair with great care, and braided only the strands that framed her face to prevent it from getting in the way during the sacrifice. At last, she tied a hlað, a ribbon of golden lace, to ornate her mistress’ forehead.

“You’re beautiful. The gods will be pleased that you lead the sacrifice.”

Eyð gave a nod and a weak smile to thank the old woman. She wasn’t so sure, yet. Would her particular god be pleased that she made a sacrifice to another god than him? In his persistent gloomy mood, would he be pleased that she tried her very own idea to open the shackle, and paint it with the goat’s blood? What if the blood couldn’t counter the witchcraft at work here? Would she endure more pain and wrath, or worse, his disappointment and disinterest?

Worse?

Frigga, help me.

She hated that she felt so reliant on his mood.

While she was getting ready, Ronan, Melkorka and Kórmakur were preparing the meal. Tonight, they would feast and eat their fill. Eyð trusted the old man and the boy to lighten the atmosphere, and hoped that the Dark god – where was he for now? – wouldn’t ruin their celebration with whatever moody or bickering behaviour. She very much hoped that, being a god, he would respect a sort of truce and let them feast in honour of his kin.

When at last the night came, Ronan lighted two bonfires for the sacrifice to take place in between. The long knife had been thoroughly prepared, its blade carefully sharpened and oiled.

The celebration had to begin at sunset. A few minutes before the sun disappeared behind the high cliffs, as the atmosphere was already a deep blue-grey, Loki entered the skáli and came to her. He was freshly bathed, and was wearing clean trousers and the shirt she had woven, sewn and embroidered for him. It made something flutter in her stomach, and her heart swelled with pride and gratitude. Never had she seen the shirt on him. It fitted perfectly, and she was quite content with her work. There was something with his hair. It was still wet, and carefully combed back. It was shorter, and curled on his nape.

“Did you cut your hair?” she said before she could think of holding her tongue.

“Melkorka did it for me.”

It suited him. He looked refined – princely.

The god was standing before her, silently taking her in, his face composed. He cleared his throat and handed her a crown made of woven herbs and evergreen saxifrage leaves.

“This is for you. For the celebration.”

She lifted her face to him, but his eyes were now averted to the back wall. His throat worked as he swallowed. Was he uneasy? Did he try to make up with this gift?

“Did you make it yourself?”

He nodded in silence.

Eyð couldn’t help the grin that spread on her face, although she did her best to immediately control it to a proper smile.

“Thank you”, she whispered.

He finally dropped his eyes on her, and as she was expectantly waiting, put the crown on her head, careful not to touch her. However, a corner of his mouth curled in a slight smile, and it seemed to her that his eyes warmed.

It took all her strength not to let her shoulders slump in relief, nor to take his hand and press it between hers.

He didn’t hate her, did he?

All at once, her sombre mood brightened and lightened. A little attention from him alleviated all the dark thoughts and boredom that had been plaguing her for almost ten days since he kissed her.

Here it was, this hope that was so late to come with the solstice and the sun reborn. It came from this little attention, from these few words. How despaired was she to relish on such scraps?

Because he thought of her and took time to interweave the plants to ornate her head.

“If you’ll allow me”, he said low and deep, “I’ll bring you the goat and assist you with the sacrifice.”

“Oh.”

Her heart raced in her chest and her head felt dizzy. It was a request formulated as a command, as it fitted to a god. He was willing to have a truce, but was still proud enough not to lower himself to ask.

His eyes grew cold and suspicious, and she feared that her lack of words could deter him. She very much didn’t want him to keep her at distance anymore. If anything, she had had time to think and conclude that his perfect, aloof politeness was perfectly insipid.

“Thank you, I would be honoured.”

Her voice was shy, just a breath, but it seemed to placate him as his handsome features relaxed, and he gave a single nod of agreement before exiting. She followed suit, and went to the bonfires while he made his way to the sheep pen.

The slaves gathered next to her as they all waited for Loki to approach, leading the goat by a rope tied to its horns. In the darkness, enlightened by the flames that reflected in his eyes, he looked as beautiful as formidable. Once again, he gave her a single nod. This was the signal that she could proceed.

She turned north and elevated both hands to the dark sky, her arms extended in a powerful prayer.

“Mighty Freyr, god of Fertility, we are calling to you. Watch us. See our devotion to the Æsir. On the darkest night, we light great fires to call the sun again.”

She lowered her arms and motioned for Loki to come close. The bonfires warmed her and kept her from the cold. They were, indeed, like a promise of warmer days and brighter light. Their cracking sounds and smoke filled her with energy.

The god brought the goat with him, and she picked the sacrificial knife on a stool next to her, lifting it towards the sky.

“Mighty Freyr, hated by none, the foremost of the gods, we beseech you. May this sacrifice reaffirm the strength of the Æsir. May the blood of this animal consecrate this place and banish from it all impure influences.”

Loki now held the goat firmly by its horns, and tilted its head to offer its throat to the knife. She bit her lips and furrowed her brows as she sliced through the skin and flesh, making the blood spill. Ronan rushed and kneeled to collect the blood in a wooden bowl. It took a few minutes for the goat to die, and when its body laid still on the ground, the old slave gave her the bowl and rose.

“May our minds be consecrated by the blood spilled in honour of the gods”, she said, and plunging her fingertips in the bowl, she marked her face with the blood. Then she did the same with Ronan who was close to her. Orla came with little Ásgeir in her arms, and Eyð smeared blood on their faces, too, and on the faces of all her slaves.

Loki left.

She turned to him, and he approached, walking nimbly like a wolf, his gaze burning with intensity.

She plunged her fingers in the bowl and lifted her hand to his face.

“By the power of Freyr, be blessed.”

She traced his cheek down to his neck, down to the collar, and halted just before touching it, wanting to pronounce her propitiating words before, bracing herself for the burn that was likely to come.

“And may the will of your kin set you free by the power of this blood-sacrifice.”

She closed her bloody fingers around the shackle, feeling it hum and buzz under her fingers. It didn’t burn, didn’t try to defend itself against her, only vibrated and emitted a soft warmth. She thought that perhaps, perhaps, it could work this time, and expectantly rose her eyes to meet the god’s stare, only to feel transfixed. His eyes bore into hers with such intensity he might as well read into her soul, and she felt liquid heat pool in her lower back.

But she collar kept closed.

She lowered her hand in disappointment. Her idea was worthless, once more. Or maybe Freyr didn’t want him free?

She would have to settle for the other sacrifice she had thought of. A very personal sacrifice to try and free the god from his fetters. The idea made her stomach contort and knot in anticipation.

But there wasn’t disillusion in his eyes, not like the time she tried to use the seal blood. Did he look – proud?

“The buildings, now”, he reminded her softly, shaking her out of her musings.

Yes, he was right. The ceremony wasn’t over. She turned to the farm, picked a sprig of heather and used it to sprinkle blood on the walls and doors, chanting words to ask for the blessing of the gods. She sprinkled blood on the livestock, and the horses whined nervously at the smell. At last, she painted the lintel of the front door of the house to bless it.

By the time the ceremony was over, Ronan had quickly and nimbly gutted and skinned the goat, and pieces of meat were now grilling on the embers.

They gathered in the skáli in search of a shelter from the cold and the snow that was beginning to fall, and the slaves made a quick work of lighting many grease lamps, bringing food and ale. Before they all sat together, Eyð took a horn full of ale that Ronan handed her.

“Tonight, we celebrate the sun reborn. We celebrate Freyr’s love for the giantess Gerð and his long wait for them to get married.”

Her throat constricted at the thought that Ásgeir should have been here, with her, that he should have conducted the Blót, that he should have kept her warm out there in the cold.

She didn’t have time to dwell on such thoughts and feelings, though, for Ronan struck up a verse about the strong winds of winter:

He who sits on the borders of sky
Is called Hræsvelg,
An eagle-shaped giant,
It is told that from his wings
The wind blows
On all men

                His declamation was followed by a toast. Encouraged, the old man went on with another verse about the origin of Summer and Winter. He had learned these verses by listening to his masters for many years. Now that there were no man in the house, he took it on him to recite poetry and maintain traditions, and Eyð felt immensely grateful for it.

Sumar’s father is Svasuð, the Amiable one.
His life is so happy
That all is sweet is called svasligt,
After his name.
As for Vetr’s father,
he is called sometimes Vindlondi, the Windy one,
sometimes Vindsval, the Cold Wind,
and he is the son of Vasuð, the Bearer of exertion.
Vetr inherited the cruel temper
And cold heart of his father.
And that is what the Mighty One explained
About the difference
Between Summer and Winter.

And so the feast started. The atmosphere grew warm and friendly in spite of their being only the five of them. They ate and drank and sung songs. Even Loki joined the singing and made an effort to be pleasant. His dry humour made them laugh more than once, and he told stories with talent and eloquence, his deep, silky voice and perfect elocution captivating his audience. They were all hung to his words, thoroughly enjoying his tales and strophes.

It was late in the night when Ronan and Orla started to drift off under the effects of the drinking and old age, and every one settled to going to bed.

Eyð’s mind, as cloudy as it was after drinking the strong ale, seemed to sober at once. Uneasiness dripped in her veins and churned in her guts.

This was the perfect night to unshackle to god of Deceit and Chaos. This was the perfect night to make a sacrifice to the Dark forces and ensure protection.

Whatever the cost, she was determined to do it. Even if she didn’t feel ready for it. Even if she felt it  might – he might – consume her.

Little Ásgeir was sleeping in his cot. This was the perfect excuse.

“Loki, please bring my son’s crib to my bedroom. I don’t want to wake him up by picking him.”

Loki gave her a suspicious look, but did what he was told all the same. She followed him in her bedroom, pointed the place where to place his load, and as he turned to leave, stopped him by putting a hand on his elbow. He spun to her, his shoulders straight and chin high. Aloof. Disdainful.

She gulped.

“Thank you for helping me with the goat. Do you think Freyr is happy?”

He shrugged.

“I think so. He’s so smug he might be happy with the whole festival.”

His impious words were shocking, but, after all, he personally knew the god of Fertility, didn’t he?

“You don’t – get along together?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Why?”

“We just – don’t get along together”, he growled with a sly smile.

Eyð nodded. He didn’t want to speak and turned once more to leave.

She ran past him.

“Wait! Wait.”

Loki tilted his head, his brows furrowed. She had to do it. She couldn’t let him leave without having offered her own sacrifice.

She sighed in discomfort and turned to close the heavy curtain, then went back to him.

The dark god kept silent in the dim light of the room, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I also wanted to thank you for wearing the shirt I made. I am beyond grateful that you find it suitable.”

“I like it.”

He wasn’t making it easy for her tonight. Why was he so taciturn?

She decided that she had to accomplish what she had in mind.

“I have – another sacrifice to make.”

She bent to catch the hem of her dress and lifted it over her head, careful not to catch the crown, then tossed it on the planked floor. Wasting no time in risk of feeling afraid, she pulled the string of the gathered shirt she was wearing underneath and tucked the collar to open it, revealing her breasts.

The god pressed his lips in a thin line.

“What are you doing?”

“In this darkest night”, she said as she worked the shirt past her shoulders and down to her waist, “where the forces of Darkness demand to be appeased, I willingly offer my body to you, Loki, god of Lies, Deceit and Chaos. This is my sacrifice to you.”

She pushed the shirt past her hips and stepped out of it, naked save for her hlad and her crown of plants. In the chilly air of her room, her nipples were erected and goose bumps ran on her exposed skin.

She didn’t dare looking at him in fear of what she might read in his eyes, and kept her gaze on his right hand. It was slightly trembling, and he stretched his fingers.

Did she want him? She even didn’t know. She felt mostly uneasy and afraid, after his kiss and his rejection.

“Look at me.”

She raised her gaze to his. His eyes were dark and he looked hungry – starved.

Right. He wanted her. She could do this.

As he lifted a hand to her jaw, she involuntarily shivered and averted her eyes to the back wall. He stopped in his tracks, considered her a few moments, then bent to pick her shift on the floor.

“You’d better go to bed”, he grunted, shoving the garment in her arms.

“Wait”, she breathed, putting a hand on his forearm.

Her eyes burned with the tears that were already welling.

“Does my sacrifice not please you?”

He shook his head sadly, and her throat constricted so hard she felt she was choking.

He didn’t want her. He rejected her.

“It does please me. You please me”, he breathed. “Very much.”

She didn’t understand, and felt no relief.

“Then why –“

“It shouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

Did it mean she wasn’t so repellent? She tried to placate him.

“Please. I’ll be good. I’m willing.”

“Willing is not enough, darling. I don’t want you to submit to me.”

A tear rolled on her cheek and he seemed to stiffen even more. He obviously didn’t stand to see her cry – weren’t her tears a proof of her weakness? – and was growing angry at her.

“Are you – are you refusing my sacrifice?”

“No.”

She couldn’t help the tiny glint of hope that flickered in her chest.

“Just – let’s say it’s – postponed. Until you really want me. Now go to bed.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, leaned in to quickly kiss her head, and strode out, leaving her naked and shivering in the middle of her room.

Chapter Text

Don't feel like dancin', dancin'
Even if I find nothin' better to do
Don't feel like dancin', dancin'
Why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?
Don't feel like dancin', dancin'
Rather be home with no-one if I can't get down with you-ou-ou

Scissor Sisters, I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’

XVII.

Loki was sitting outside by the paddock as often these past days, and thus had a good view on the cove and the ship that was turning the cliffs.

He hadn’t slept at all.

Pictures of Eyð’s creamy skin, of her pale rosy nipples, of the soft curves of her waist and hips had haunted him through the night and at some time, he had to take himself in hand in take care of his aching cock. Fucking his fist thinking of a mortal was unexampled.

How low had he fallen?

The pleasure he had felt while stroking himself, as he remembered the savage way he had kissed her and pictured her naked against him did nothing to alleviate his frustration, and his thoughts were inevitably drawn to her.

As soon as he left her last night, he went out of the house, unable to stay next to her any longer, for he would have indulged in what she offered.

The solstice sacrifice of a woman. Just like the barbarians of old. Well, he couldn’t say that he never accepted such sacrifices, that he rejected the virgins that were displayed for his pleasure and for ensuring his benevolence.

But she was different.

First of all, she wasn’t drunk, hadn’t been drugged, and had taken the decision by herself. His offerings of old had been chosen girls who submitted in fear of something worse than being fucked by the god of Chaos.

Eyð was still mourning, and even though she was trying to move on, she sometimes cried when something made her remember her husband. She still had bouts of melancholy. And so it wasn’t right to take advantage. Even if he burned with desire, even if he felt utterly consumed by the want that constantly gnawed his insides.

The boat was approaching in the late dawn. Whoever it belonged to, the sailors must have set sail very early. They must have not get much rest after their own celebration.

Who could it be but her brother, alarmed not to see her at his feast?

Loki rose to his feet and went back to the house.

“Wake Eyð”, he said as he shook Orla’s shoulder, making the old woman jolt under his brutal hand. “There is a boat coming. Likely her brother’s.”

The woman got to her feet and stumbled to the back room. He didn’t wait for Eyð and went back outside, considering the boat.

It was quite large. Likely twenty oars, and as much men to row. By no mean could it be the two cellar-looters coming back to avenge themselves. There was no need to pick a weapon, and he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed on his chest and a foot casually tucked on the planks, waiting for Eyð.

When she eventually came out, the ship was landing on the shore.

A quick glance to her made his heart squeeze with pain.

She was pale, and her puffed eyes showed clearly enough that she had cried a good part of the night.

Was it because she missed her husband and his absence felt heavier during the holiday?

Was it – and immediately guilt clawed at his heart and lungs like a starved bird of prey – because he had declined – rejected – her offer?

“It must be your brother”, he said.

She nodded. They both knew why Tórmoður could be coming.

They waited in silence until they saw the men approaching. A part of the crew stayed with the boat and only five men came to the farm.

“Go inside”, she demanded in a blank voice.

“Don’t you want me to back you?”

“You’re not the master. You can’t welcome them, they would grow suspicious.”

He didn’t move, forcing her to turn to him.

“You don’t want to draw their attention on you, do you?”

There was an edge in her voice that hurt him.

Right. He probably deserved it, after all. With a sigh, he left her to enter the skáli.

Orla gave him a wary look. She was flattening bread dough to bake it in an iron pan.

“Do you need peat for the fire?” he offered.

“Don’t play nice”, she scolded. “I don’t know what you told her yesterday evening, but it made her cry.”

He nodded slowly. Guilt was gnawing at his guts like the small, sharp teeth of a fox.

“I’ll talk to her later. For now, brace yourself and support her.”

She groaned in acknowledgement, and as she placed a flat bread in the hot pan, the door opened. Eyð entered, followed by her brother and four men. She invited them to have a seat and offered them food and drinks.

“I can see you celebrated the Jólablót by yourself”, said the chieftain.

There was blood above the front door and the bonfires had left cold ashes outside.

She nodded.

“We’ve come to seek you. You shouldn’t stay on your own. Come with us and feast with your family.”

“I don’t feel like –“

“Oh, come on, little sister”, he insisted with a chuckle. “Only for a couple of days. You’ll be back soon.”

Loki had to admit that it could do her good to see people, chatter, drink and have fun. He wouldn’t go against the chieftain if he had a word to say. Eyð was unsure. She probably was too tired to fight with her brother. A quick glance to Orla was rewarded with raised brows that said why not?

“I hate sailing.”

“Too bad you’re living on an island, then”, Tórmoður chuckled.

She looked at Loki with pleading eyes, but he kept silent. Didn’t she say a few minutes ago that she didn’t want him to draw attention on him? He crossed his arms and held her gaze. The chieftain noticed them, just as the last time they were in his longhouse.

“She trusts you, þræll. What do you say?”

It had been a long time since anyone called him that. He didn’t miss the term. Eyð opened her mouth and inhaled to speak, but he cut her before she could say anything.

“Your sister can very well decide for herself.”

He considered her a moment. A brief look of relief flashed in her eyes and she quickly averted her gaze to the floor to give herself a composure.

“But if you’re asking me, I actually think that she badly needs company.”

Her face spun to him with an outraged gasp.

“Don’t you –“

“Very well”, said Tórmoður, cheerfully clapping his hands. “Get your stuff, sister, we’re leaving right now to sail during daylight.”

She scoffed, her fists clenched at her sides, glaring daggers at Loki.

“Mind your own business, you insufferable –“

She interrupted herself, fulminating, and the god challenged her with a raised eyebrow, his arms still crossed on his chest. A delectable flush crept from her neck to her cheeks.

The chieftain laughed.

“You’re coming along, þræll. The wet nurse too.

“Tórmoður, please.”

The man went to Eyð and set his two paws on her shoulders.

“Come on, sister. You’ve had a hard time, you need distraction.”

She closed her eyes in defeat and let a long sigh.

“Orla, come and help me pack some clothes.”

Loki waited for her to pass in her bedroom, then went to his bench and picked the fine tunic she had made for him, and the one he was wearing when he was caught, along with the pair of trousers he was wearing yesterday for the celebration. He folded everything in a bag and put his cloak before slipping the strap of the bag on his shoulder and exiting.

The chieftain was already waiting outside. He gave him a quick glance before turning his face to the ship.

“Did you have her?” he asked almost absent-mindedly.

Loki looked at him. The man was seemingly detached, his arms casually crossed. He was keen and calculating.

“No.”

He crossed his arms too, his composure showing his easiness.

“Not yet”, he added, and the man spun to him.

Ah. Interesting.

“Don’t expect anything.”

Loki chuckled darkly.

“Well, let her choose. If she wants me, I think I’ll indulge.”

“Oh, I’ll let her have fun with you. But when the time comes, don’t expect to marry her and have the farm. It’s not for you.”

He bit his lips to stiffen his laughter. How could he have any interest in this miserable lands? It was interesting to try and have a glimpse of what the chieftain was scheming, though.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know you.”

“And?”

“I don’t trust you.”

This time, he laughed.

“Many say just so.”

“Mmmh. Clever, handsome, insolent. A dangerous mix.”

Loki gave him his most charming smile.

Eyð went outside, her son in her arms, and stopped at seeing the both of them, a wary glint in her eyes. She squared her shoulders and resumed her walking to the shore. She had changed her outfit and was now wearing a nice blue apron dress and a heavy cloak dyed in a dark red, its hood lined with fox fur. Her best clothes, undoubtedly. Her hair had been combed and was tied in a long braid hanging in her back.

Melkorka followed suit, holding her daughter on her hip. Kórmakur, Orla and Ronan came too, carrying packed luggage.

Tórmoður had to stride to catch up with his sister, and Loki walked fast enough to get close to Melkorka and be able to listen to the siblings’ conversation.

“This insolent þræll of yours –“

“He’s not a þræll.”

Her voice was dry and sharp. She was angry, and Loki couldn’t help but smile to himself. Was she going to support him once more?

“He is?”

“He’s a prince, and my lover.”

This time he had to bit his lips not to burst in laughter.

Melkorka shot him a look that he answered with a playfull purse and shake of his head. Tórmoður stopped and put a big hand on Eyð shoulder.

“He told me the contrary.”

“Well, he lied to you. That’s what he does. He talks and lies. All the time.”

She glared at Loki as she spoke, and he couldn’t help but smirk. He was so proud of her. His delectable little mortal, sweet and fierce.

“Now let’s go”, she commanded as she resumed her walk. “The sooner we leave, the sooner I’ll be back here.”

They sailed in silence. The wind was strong and the choppy sea wouldn’t make the sailing easy. The women and children were sitting in the back of the ship next to the helmsman. Loki was sitting at the foot of the mast, his legs casually bent and his elbows resting on his knees. The chieftain observed him, obviously scheming. The man was calculating, and even if he seemed to genuinely like his sister, she was but a pawn to be used to his own benefit.

After a few hours, they made it to the harbour and Eyð hurried to the edging, and practically jumped out of the boat on onto the pier. Loki helped Melkorka out and picked bags. The chieftain’s men helped carrying the luggage, too. Eyð was waiting for Melkorka and him, but her brother hooked her arm in his elbow and took the lead. Loki followed suit, distrustful. He very much preferred keeping an eye on her.

***

The longhouse was crowded. Immediately she felt uneasy. There were too much people, she was drawing too much attention.

The night was almost falling and people were already gathering in the house for the second night of the celebration.

“Eyð!” cheerfully cried her sister-in-law, her arms wide open in a welcoming gesture. “I’m so happy that you finally have come to feast with us!”

Eyð smiled to her and answered the hug that was offered.

“I wanted to make my own sacrifice to have my farm blessed and consecrated.”

“Of course, you are so right. Did you feast amongst yourselves?”

Eyð nodded with a smile. It was forced, but she hoped it would convince the woman.

“Oh, and you brought him along”, Dagbjört whispered, looking past her and evidently to Loki. She was practically licking her lips with gluttony.

Eyð felt a pang of annoyance. No, something else, like a wildfire spreading in her veins combined with a hard squeeze of her heart. Was it jealousy? Her sister-in-law wasn’t any subtle and didn’t care hiding her attraction.

“Just look, don’t touch”, she warned with a hiss that her warm smile belied.

Dagbjört’s grin widened with delectation.

“Oh, Eyð!” she laughed. “Really? I thought you were the shy type!”

She turned to look at Loki. His eyes were on them, and he addressed her a smug smile.

Insufferable god.

“Come, have something to eat and make yourselves comfortable.”

Eyð followed her sister-in-law to the back rooms along with Melkorka. The slave and the children were to stay here separated from the rest of the guests. The two women changed and wore pretty dresses for the feast, their hair were artfully braided, and their foreheads ornate with a golden hlað. While they were getting ready, Dagbjört tried to question her about Hveðrungr, but Eyð’s only answers were evasive words or uncanny smiles. Finally Eyð pinned her finest silver brooches to maintain the straps of her apron dress, and wore her beautiful collar of amber and gold beads. It was a gift from Ásgeir, and she hadn’t worn it since his death, for it was too painful. It hurt her to wear it tonight, but she wanted to do him honour and display the jewel.

Music, songs, chatter and laughter were already noisy in the skáli and Eyð braced herself, savouring what little peace she could enjoy before joining the crowd.

As soon as they crossed the heavy curtains that separated the chieftain’s rooms from the main room, they were welcomed by boisterous voices. People were already well in their cups, and the talking and laughter were loud.

Eyð spotted Arni and Kolfinnr who were sitting with men, chatting and laughing loudly, horns full of strong beer in their hands. She didn’t want to have to cross them. Fortunately, she found that there were finally enough people to go relatively unnoticed in the crowd. She grabbed a horn full of mead and managed to sneak between chatting groups, aiming to a pillar that seemed to provide a little more darkness and quietness.

“Eyð!” a male voice called her, catching her elbow at the same time.

She spun and shivered at seeing him. Her husband’s obnoxious brother. She managed to compose her face and smile politely.

“Ólafur.”

“I’m pleased to see you here.”

She didn’t answer back, not caring to be rude to him, keeping her false smile plastered on her face.

“Have you reconsidered my proposition?”

“No.”

“Well, you should.”

She took a sharp inhale to try and keep her self-control. Now was not the time to make a scene. Just as she was opening her lips to say something sharp and witty, a strong arm snaked around her waist.

“Ah, here you are, darling.”

It was Loki’s deep, rich voice.

“What are you drinking?”

He took the horn from her hands and, lifting it to his lips, took a mouthful. Eyð gasp quietly. It was very intimate. It was improper. He was treating her like – he was behaving scandalously and –

“Is this not your þræll, Eyð?”

Ólafur’s voice was sharp and threatening.

“Actually, he’s a prince.”

“And her lover”, purred the god of Lies with a disarming smile.

Ólafur’s face went nearly purple with anger, and Eyð thought he was going to choke.

“Well, have fun with the vixen”, he practically spat before turning and disappearing in the crowd of guests.

She let a sigh of relief and tried to pull herself out of Loki’s hold, but he only tightened the embrace.

“Loki, it’s improper. Maybe you can do it where you come from, but we don’t display affection in public here.”

“I’m not displaying affection. I’m displaying jealousy, darling.”

His deep purr made her shiver.

“What is this new game?”

He chuckled darkly, and relaxed his arm so she could take distance.

“You seemed to be annoyed by this daft moron.”

“You shouldn’t have drank in my horn. It’s considered –“

“A very intimate gesture? I’m well aware of that.”

She frowned and worried her bottom lip.

“Here you are”, he said, giving the horn back. “I don’t like mead that much anyway. It’s not very refined.”

“Spoilt prince”, she answered playfully, taking the horn and draining the liquid.

She liked mead, and since honey had to be brought from abroad, there weren’t much occasions to taste that drink. She suddenly very much intended to keep her horn full of it, if it could prevent Loki from embarrassing her again with a behaviour that was just like a public claim.

“I’ll have some more”, she giggled, and he laughed with her.

“Now tell me, where is this handsome Eyvind whose divine beauty you admire so much?”

She almost choked on her mead.

“Is this jealousy that I’m hearing?” she asked with a playful smile, and he answered with a feigned imperious stare that made her insides flutter. “Over there”, she said, pointing at a tall, lean man with dark blond hair, pale blue eyes and regular features.

“He looks stern. And he has a long nose.”, Loki commented with a grunt.

“Perhaps, but he doesn’t look like a boar”, she laughed. “And I like this thin, crooked nose.”

He grunted more and shot her a look full of contempt that made her laugh.

They managed to have a funny evening. They talked and drank, not needing the company of other people. Her head was already feeling heavy and fogged, and she was cackling for nothing when Dagbjört came to seek her.

“Come dance, Eyð!”

She couldn’t articulate her feeble protestations and finally followed her sister-in-law to dance and jump in rhythm, a horn still in her hand, spilling her drink all over her dress.

It seemed to her that she never had so much fun. She couldn’t remember how long it was since she laughed so much, at least, and didn’t care. Tonight was about letting the past and entering a new year.

She even managed to grab Loki’s hand at some time and make him dance with her. He smiled and laughed as he held her hand and swirled with her. He looked careless and beautiful, and now that she knew how his lips felt, she very much wanted to kiss him. The only thing that made her hold back was that Tórmoður kept observing her.

Her head spun and she didn’t feel steady on her feet.

“I need some fresh air”, she whined, and Loki chuckled.

They made their way through the crowd and to the door. The cold night air hit her like a slapping wave, and she groaned in protest. Loki drove her to the corner of the house to find shelter from the wind, and she leaned heavily against him, relishing in his warmth. She was behaving improperly, she knew it, but she was having fun and now she wanted him.

“Kiss me?” she asked.

“You’re drunk, Eyð.”

“I know. Who cares?”

She leaned against the wall and placed his hands on her waist before snaking hers to his shoulders. She pressed herself against him and raised on her toes, but he was so tall she couldn’t reach his lips.

“Please”, she whispered. “Kiss me, please.”

As he kept still, she urged him once more.

“Please. Please, my beautiful god.”

The title seemed to make him yield, and he bent to brush her lips with his, kissing her gently, not at all like the other kiss he had given her. She answered with more force, pushing against him, licking his lower lip.

“I want you”, she groaned against his mouth, and he interrupted the kiss with a sound half-way between a sigh and a chortle.

“You’re very drunk, darling.”

Chapter Text

I come home, in the mornin' light
My mother says "When you gonna live your life right?"
Oh momma dear, we're not the fortunate ones
And girls, they wanna have fun
Oh girls just wanna have fun

Cindy Lauper, Girls Just Want To Have Fun

XVIII.

Eyð’s head hurt. Her pain was the first thing she was conscious of. Blood rhythmically pulsed behind her temples and eyes, her throat was parched, and her tongue felt heavy and sticky. It seemed to her that even her hair hurt. She groaned miserably.

She didn’t remember dreaming. It seemed to her that she had slept like a log and that her bladder forced her to emerge from a deep numbness.

But she was also – and it felt strange – particularly comfortable, sprawled on her belly, her chest and head resting on a warm pillow that was both soft and firm. It didn’t ease her pain, but it seemed to make it tolerable, at least. She tried to stretch her neck, but the slightest movement made her headache even worse. Her fogged brain noticed that there was a weight in her back. Odd. She moved her fingers on the pillow, and it swelled. It swelled with a deep inhale.

What –

She cracked an eye open, groaning and wincing even though the large room wasn’t brightly illuminated, and the weight on her back tightened and snaked around her waist.

What the –

“Hello, darling.”

A deep voice, hoarse with sleep.

Opening both eyes, she discovered with much horror that she wasn’t resting on a pillow. At all.

She was sleeping on Loki’s chest. A leg propped on his thigh. And the god was holding her in his arms, preventing her from going away.

“What happened?” she groaned, trying to lift her upper body with weak arms.

“You drank too much.”

Loki’s arms wrapped her tighter, and she gave in, laying back on him. Her head was heavy and he was too strong to fight.

“Mmmh. Are you in my bed?”

“Yes. Actually it’s a large bench. Rather uncomfortable, if I must say.”

Her eyes shot open once more. What happened? Did he – did they –

“Why are you here? What happened?”

“Sssh, darling. Nothing happened. I just shared your bed.”

She rolled on her back and he let her go. Her headache pounded with more force, just as if her brain was rolling inside her skull, making her groan. Her eyes closed. What did he take advantage of while she was unconscious?

“Leave.”

“Eyð. Look at me.”

With great effort, she turned her head to him and did as he told. His eyes were warm and honest. He was indeed wearing his shirt, her she could feel his trousers against her legs.

“You’re dressed. I’m dressed. I just removed your boots before tucking you in bed.”

Rubbing her feet together, she noted the loose stockings around her calves. Did her sex feel sore or – exerted? No. But her head hurt so much it covered most of her sensations. She nodded slightly. She had to believe him. To trust him.

“Why did you sleep in my bed?”

He chuckled lowly. She was struggling to keep her eyes open.

“To keep our little lies going.”

What lies? She didn’t remember what she said last night.

“What?”

“We both said to your brother and to Ólafur that we are lovers.”

“Oh. Right.”

She remembered this. Seeing their looks of outrage had been fun, and a little avenging. But what happened that she didn’t remember? She had no memory of Loki putting her in bed or removing her boots, for example.

“By the Æsir. I can’t remember. Did I do something embarrassing?”

He chortled more, but didn’t answer, and she gave him a weak slap on the arm.

“I never saw you laugh before yesterday evening”, he whispered. “You’re beautiful when you laugh.”

Her skin tingled with pleasure at his praise. Did it mean she was blushing? She couldn’t feel it. Her head was too fuddled and hurt too much. His nice words didn’t answer her question, though.

“What did I do, Loki?”

“Nobody saw you, be reassured. Besides, they were all as drunk as you.”

Now this wasn’t good news. She did do something embarrassing. Was it possible that she both felt that her body lacked water like a dried fish and her bladder seemed ready to explode?

“What did I do?”

“Nothing bad.”

“But what?”

He turned on his side to face her. His hand went to her face to brush her hair away and put a few strands behind her ear.  Gathered her in his arms and tucked his chin on the crown of her head.

“Get back to sleep”, he whispered.

Even if it did nothing to alleviate her headache, she had to admit that it was very pleasant to be held like this. Yet she had to get up and go to the latrines. She wriggled to take distance, and had to explicitly tell Loki why she needed him to let go of her. She was sleeping on the wall side and the god didn’t move to let her pass. With an annoyed sigh, she managed to crawl over Loki’s body, blushing furiously when he addressed her a very smug grin as she clumsily straddled him, and got on her feet. She smoothed the wrinkles of her dress with flat hands, trying to steady her wobbly legs and dizzy head.

By the Æsir, she just wanted to lay in bed all day long and be left on her own.

She managed to make her way the latrines outside, blinking in the dim light of the late winter dawn, and got back to the house as soon as possible, only wondering when she crossed the threshold if she could, in full consciousness, go back to her bed – go back to him.

“Eyð.”

She shuddered at the severe tone of her brother’s voice. Slowly turning her gaze, she saw him standing next to her, his arms crossed on his chest, a frown on his face.

Oh. She was going to be scolded like a little girl.

She jolted as he laid a big hand on her shoulder. The movement worsened the pain in her skull and she winced.

“What?”

“Come with me,” Tórmoðdur whispered not ungently.

He led her to the back rooms.

Oh. A private conversation, so.

Eyð sighed more. It was obviously going to be tedious.

Her brother gave her a chair and a servant held her a goblet of water that she gratefully took and drained. It didn’t help her headache, but her parched throat and mouth felt instantly suppler, and she moaned in relief as she lowered the empty recipient.

Tórmoður sat too and watched her silently for a minute. She held his gaze for a few seconds, before growing uncomfortable and averting her eyes to the floor. That’s what he wants. He wants you to feel guilty. Biting her lower lip, she made an effort to look detached and hold her chin high, her eyes casually set on his shield that was hung on the wall.

“So, the arrogant þræll is your lover.”

“He’s not a þræll.”

“Mmmh.”

He scratched his head.

“How long have you been fucking him?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“No, of course, but – you looked so mournful the last time you came here.”

She lowered her eyes.

“So you can easily conclude that it’s very new.”

He grunted in frustration.

“You can’t marry him, you know.”

She raised her brows in vexation. She was very well aware of that, so well aware that the thought hadn’t even come to her mind. Gods didn’t debase themselves with humans.

“I know. I know it more that you could figure.”

Her tone was dry. Bitter. But what could she tell? Her brother couldn’t even understand. He wouldn’t believe her.

“Be very careful with him. I don’t trust him. We don’t even know him.”

She took a sharp inhale in an attempt to calm down her raising anger. He didn’t like this particular god. The Sly one, he called him. Ormstunga, Snake-tongue, he called him. She was losing patience and her headache didn’t help her to show benevolence with her brother.

“Who knows what he wants from you?”

“Oh come on, Tórmoður! I know I can’t marry him, and he knows that too. Let me tell you I won’t, by any mean, marry Ólafur either. Now leave me alone. Life is short and I’m just looking for a bit of affection and pleasure while I can get them.”

Dagbjört came with little Ásgeir and gave her the baby before sitting with them. A silent reminder of her duties as her mother. She had to raise her son and make him a man. She had to take care of his patrimony.

“Be careful all the same”, her sister-in-law said softly.

“Don’t ridicule yourself”, Tórmoður added.

***

Laying on his back, his eyes to the ceiling, Loki tried to reach for his seiðr.

It must be there, hidden in his blood.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

His heart jumped in his ribcage.

He took a deep inhale and closed his eyes to focus, willingly breathing slow and deep to calm down his heartbeat.

And another try.

His seiðr usually tingled somewhere in his nape or between his shoulder blades. Almost in his spine. This morning, nothing was to be felt. Just like every morning since he healed Eyð’s hands. He had exhausted himself that night, and had to rest on the floor, half laying and half sitting, just as if Thor had given him a good beating in training. He had drained all his power. For her.

Ridiculous, Thor would say.

He sighed in dismay, and opened his eyes, tucking an arm behind his head, staring at the beams and the panelled ceiling.

It was strange. He didn’t think about Thor, and just twice in a row, his brother’s name came to his mind. Was it – nostalgia?

Get a grip on yourself, Loki.

The bed was still warm with Eyð’s body heat lingering under the covers.

Loki had to admit that, in spite of the hard bench, he slept well last night. He didn’t struggle to drift off, even if the Miðgardian drinks had little effects on him, even if she was flush against him, on a sleeping bench. Well, he hadn’t slept at all after she offered him to fuck her. After she offered herself as a sacrifice, as she said. The mere word was ridiculous. She desired him, he knew it, but she was hesitant. She might feel guilty, for her husband had been dead for only three months. But she hadn’t been touched for three seasons, and her young body had instincts she tried to suppress.

She didn’t remember kissing him last night, drunk as she was. Maybe he should have taken advantage and given her a reminder? He remembered very well her soft, pink lips and her sigh in his mouth.

I want you.

She was very drunk, and wasn’t herself as she spoke. Too bad.

Holding her through the night, waking up with his arms around her had been utterly delicious. The feeling of her warm, supple body, of her leg draped around his, of his hand wrapped on her hip.

Oh.

Delectable, she was.

He couldn’t be satisfied with a single night, though. He couldn’t be satisfied with holding her, dressed, against him. By no mean. And when she would let him thoroughly have her, there would be no return.

By the time he dwelled in such fantasy, Eyð came back with long, angry steps, laid her son on the bed and sat to impatiently put her boots. He propped himself on an elbow and cautiously put a hand on her shoulder, fearing to be rejected for such an intimate gesture.

“What happened?”

“I need fresh air.”

She rose and grabbed her cloak, tightly wrapped it around her and the baby, and strode outside.

Her brother was evidently the cause for her ire. Loki sat, equipped himself against the cold too, and followed her. It was rarely a good thing to let her alone outside when she was in such an emotional state.

The weather was cold and calm in the blue morning light. There was no wind, and the water inside the fjord was very still.

He found her easily. She was walking towards the black sand shore, her red cloak like blood on the snow. His long legs easily allowed to join her and he didn’t bother to walk quietly, in fear of startling her. Her breath was ragged with effort and anger, and from behind, he could see it come in white puffs.

“Eyð, what happened? What did he say to you?”

She stopped and turned to him, her cheeks wet with tears of anger.

“I’m tired of being his pawn. He wants me to marry again.”

“To whom?”

She helplessly shook her head.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell – he just said –“

Loki had a slight idea of what the man could have said, after his hostile comments of the previous day. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around her, careful not to crush her son against him, and brought a hand to her head in protection. Holding her tightly, sharing his warmth and strength.

“What are you –“

“We made a deal”, he whispered, reminding her of their bargain. A decent treatment and respect for his benevolence. Did he act like this today because he agreed to what she proposed weeks ago, when she was distressed and afraid of him? No. Not anymore. He knew how much she valued her independence. How much she hated being commanded by her brother. Didn’t she break and howl her anger and distress in the wind, a few months ago, when the chieftain sailed all the way to Svínoy to propose her to wed that boorish brute of Ólafur?

“Let me take care of you. For now, you’re hungry and cold. And upset.”

She made a soft humming sound, slowly nodding, and he felt warmth flow in his chest at her acceptance.

He turned, rotating the three of them to walk towards the houses, and caught sight of her brother, watching them with his arms crossed on his barrelled chest. A glance to Eyð let him know she was aware of the chieftain’s survey.

A sudden impulse made him stop and press her tighter against him, cupping her face with both hands before kissing her. Here, in the outside, in dawning daylight. For all to see.

It was not sweet and gentle like her drunk kisses from last night.

He pressed his lips on hers, pushing her lips apart with his tongue, entering her mouth as she obediently opened it, rolling his tongue against hers in dominance, but slowly, languidly, without the brutality of his first kiss. Claiming her in the eyes of her brother.

She sighed in his mouth and answered the kiss, her lips and tongue moving to match his, the fingers of one hand clutching at his clothes for balance.

A spark set alight in his veins and quickly burst into a wildfire with a soft moan from her.

Nornir.

She broke the kiss, gasping for air, and lifted a gaze that made his heart jump with – what was it that he felt? She watched him with eyes full of hope.

***

As soon as she heard steps on the mix of sand and pebbles of the strand, she knew it was Loki. Who else could it be but her god, protective as he was? It immediately soothed her heart, even if she was too angry with Tórmoður to speak calmly, rationally.

“He wants me to marry again”, she cried when the god questioned her.

What was to be said? They both knew what society expected from her.

Tend to the house and children.

Command the slaves.

Do the dairy work.

Warm your husband’s bed.

Be a good wife.

She had been a good wife for a man she loved, even if he had been chosen for her. Even if she had been a prize for this man.

Now the only prospect her brother offered her was to trade her again, and she firmly refused it.

Don’t ridicule yourself.

I saw you kissing your thrall last night.

Melkorka had watched her with wide, frightened eyes as she said, once more, that Hveðrungr was treated like the high-born hostage he was, and gasped as her brother answered that whoring herself to an hostage was not part of the laws of hospitality. But she never revealed what she knew.

That was when Eyð left, to prevent something improper, such as slapping her brother in the face.

And here, on the beach, she was grateful that Loki followed her.

“To whom?”

What could she say? She firmly refused Ólafur. Was her brother thinking of someone else?

“I don’t know”, she babbled, struggling to form coherent thoughts under her headache and the flow of conflicted emotions that made her head spin. Anger and resent mixed with relief, gratitude and – something she didn’t feel ready to explore.

He wrapped her in a warm embrace that made her wary, at first. Wasn’t it too intimate?

“We made a deal”, he whispered.

Was it all that it meant for him? A deal? For her, it meant more than that, she had to face it, scary as it may be. He elicited reactions from her that were far beyond respect and help. She craved his conversations and needed his approval. Waking in his arms had been much more than agreeable, and the renewed embrace made her insides fill with warmth.

“Let me take care of you”, he whispered again.

Oh. Freyja.

The feeling that flowed over her was so, so powerful, just like a churning tidal current. She rested her head against his chest, unable to restraint a pitiful whine of – what? Relief? Pleasure?

He released his hold and turned to the village, still resting a hand on her shoulder that she hesitated to call supportive or – no, don’t think about it like that.

As she heard him take a sharp, conceited inhale, she lifted her gaze and spotted Tórmoður. He was plainly staring at them, his arms crossed on his wide chest. Even in the distance, she could see the look of disapproval on her brother’s face.

More scolding was to be expected, undoubtedly.

Loki stopped in his tracks and brought both his hands to her head, his palms resting on her jaws and his fingers plunging in the hair of her nape, and she froze under his burning stare. He immediately kissed her, imperious, and she opened her mouth to grant him the access he demanded as his tongue snaked between her lips.

Oh.

It wasn’t brutal like the time he kissed her in the dark, but his slow dominance made her skin tingle and her belly feel warm. Her painful head felt dizzy and she had to clutch at his shirt for balance.

Finally.

As she answered the kiss and moved her lips and tongue with his, she felt one of his hands slide further in her hair and possessively curl into a fist. Sparks of pleasure prickled down her spine to her lower back, and – did she moan in his mouth?

She broke the kiss, panting for air, and he rested his head against hers, never letting his hands down. It was intimate. It was improper. The realization hit her like a slap. He was claiming her, here, in the open. Because words were not enough to dissuade eventual suitors.

“My brother is going to be furious.”

“I thought you wanted to infuriate him,” the god whispered mischievously, and she couldn’t escape a giggle.

What was it that she felt? Hope? Lust? Something else?

She knew something for sure. She wanted to leave. Wanted to go back to her farm. To go back to her bed, and take him with her.

Chapter Text

(Baby, we both know) that the nights were mainly made
For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day

Arctic Monkeys, “Do I Wanna Know?”

XIX.

The sunlight warmed Eyð’s face as it shone on her, and her heart warmed along at the strong embrace that held her flush against a stocky chest. Ásgeir’s chest. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was holding her.

Eyð knew she was dreaming. What else than a dream could it be? It was sunny and warm, like a beautiful summer day. She was in Ásgeir’s arms, relishing in his presence, listening to his strong heartbeat. He didn’t say anything, only held her tight and petted her hair. As she lifted her face to meet his gaze, he grinned through his thick copper beard.

“Hello, wife.”

And she smiled back.

She knew it was only a dream, but it was so comforting to see him like this, happy and young and careless, just like he was before he left. Surely there was nothing wrong in savouring this happiness, although she felt it was ephemeral.

She hid her face in his chest, nuzzling his shirt, trying to catch his musky and salty scent, but nothing was to be smelled. The dream had its limits, she knew this, also. It was oddly disturbing, to dwell in this pleasant dream and be aware and conscious, while sleeping, that it was nothing but an illusion.

She sighed in contentment.

Ásgeir tried to disentangle and pull back, and she clutched at him.

“Let me go, wife”, he grumbled softly.

She tilted her face to his. What was he saying? He pressed his lips on hers, and she answered, opening her mouth, licking his lips, and grinned against his mouth as he wrapped his tongue against hers. She clutched at him all the more. He had to seize her hands to be able to draw back a little, watching her with his warm brown eyes.

Why?

Why did she suddenly feel that something was wrong?

“Here”, he said, looking behind her. “I entrust her to you.”

What was he saying? She turned to whomever he was speaking to, oblivious of their presence until this very moment.

The Dark god was standing next to her, severe, imperious and intimidating, dark clouds in his back, his black curls twirling in a gush of cold wind she hadn’t felt until then. He gave her a thin smile and took her hand as Ásgeir presented it to him. She felt transfixed, and couldn’t tear her eyes from his clear eyes.

“Let me go”, her husband’s voice whispered in her ear.

What was happening? Why couldn’t she stay warm and safe in the sun with him? Why did he give her to the cold shadow?

She turned to look at him. He was fading, still smiling at her, until he vanished into thin air.

She opened her mouth to call him, but her throat could make no sound.

No. No, stay!

She sat with a jolt, struggling to catch her breath, and scrubbed her face with her palms.

A sweet dream that turned to – not exactly a nightmare, but – something ominous, something heavy with – yes, this was exactly what she felt. Guilt. She felt guilty because these past days, she had almost forgotten sorrow and indulged into the strange feelings Loki elicited from her.

A cold hand settled on her back in a soothing caress.

“What is wrong, darling?”

Loki’s sleepy, hoarse whisper. Last night, his voice appeased her. Now, she didn’t want to hear it. She crawled over him and rose on her legs, in need of fresh air. She slipped her feet in her boots and put her cloak on her shoulders.

“Eyð, where are you going?”

His voice was firm. Demanding. She squeezed her eyes shut to get a grip.

“Shh. I just need to breathe”, she managed to whisper, desperate to be alone.

Eyð sneaked out of the house, not looking behind her for she was sure to meet the god’s stare. He had kept close to her all day, insolently smiling at her brother, possessively sharing her cup during the meals. Making her blush with the boldness of the gesture. And when it was time to go to sleep, as she expected him to finish what he started and fully claim her, he sent her first to bed on the pretence of having to speak with someone, and she nervously waited for him until her body betrayed her and she drifted off. Only to find him chastely asleep next to her in the middle of the night.

After this very disturbing dream.

She walked to the pier. It was snowing and she knew she couldn’t stay long in the open air, for the clothes she was wearing weren’t thick enough. The fresh snow grated under her boots as she crushed it with each step. She had to focus to keep steady in the dark, and as she finally came to the deck, the slippery planks demanded even more precaution.

Why did she choose the pier? Wasn’t it the very place where she vainly waited for Ásgeir? Wasn’t it the very place where she learned of his death? Why did she come here, if it wasn’t to torture herself with guilt and painful memories?

Heavy footsteps echoed behind her, and instantly her blood burned with irritation.

“Is something the matter?”

Loki’s voice was deep, velvety and challenging at once.

“Won’t you leave me a moment of peace?” she hissed.

“After you displayed very bad habits of endangering yourself?” he laughed bitterly. “No, darling, absolutely not.”

She shivered, certainly from the cold. How mean of him to remind her of her carelessness. He noticed her shudder, for he came to her and closed his arms around her, making her stiffen.

Conflicted emotions struggled within her chest. She longed to let go and indulge in his embrace, to lose herself in his arms and share her body with him. And her dream reminded her so painfully of how much she missed Ásgeir. How much he comforted her and effortlessly made her happy.

“Tell me about your nightmare.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.”

Loki hummed softly, and the sound vibrated in his chest. She could feel it through the layers of fabric.

“Still, tell me.”

She stubbornly kept silent, unable to relax and find solace in his arms.

“Eyð. Don’t keep away from me.”

His words did nothing to soothe her, on the contrary. They were a sharp reminder of her dream. A knife slicing through her soul.

I entrust her to you.

She restrained a sob and emitted a choked sound.

“Did you dream of – him? Your husband?”

She nodded, noticing how the god carefully avoided to pronounce Ásgeir’s name.

“Did you dream about shape-shifting?”

“No.”

She hadn’t had such dreams since Loki skinned and gutted the seal, forcing her to face the truth. To accept that Ásgeir was well and truly gone. That he was dead, and she would never see him again, save in her sleep. And now, now, this very dream had a perfectly clear meaning. Live. Admit your desire. Surrender to him.

“Tell me, then.”

She breathed hard, trying to think lucidly, trying to tame the emotional flood. In vain. You could as well try to tame the tide, she thought bitterly.

“He was – he was leaving me.”

“Oh.”

“To you.”

What did she hear in the long sigh Loki exhaled? Relief? Satisfaction? Compassion?

“So you’re feeling guilty.”

She nodded, and as her eyes stung, made her best to restrain the tears from rolling on her cheeks. Loki knew her so well. She had finally accepted that Ásgeir was dead, that she was on her own, but how could she cope with her widowhood if she didn’t allow herself to? Was it bad to feel that she didn’t have the right to long for someone else so soon?

But then again, it was so long since Ásgeir left. It was almost ten moons since he departed.

“It’s alright”, Loki whispered in her hair. “Your brother made a good job of making yourself feel this way.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe. But wasn’t the guilt her own?

“Come back to bed, darling. Tomorrow we’ll sail back home.”

She couldn’t help noticing how he said home, instead of saying the name of the island, instead of saying the farm. And a new feeling came churning with the others. But it was lighter, and warmer, and with the feeling of his lips at the roots of her hair, it seemed to her that the night wasn’t so dark.

***

Guilt.

A powerful emotion indeed.

As long as Eyð didn’t overcome it, Loki knew she would keep her distance. She was already so rigid in his arms, whereas the previous morning she was so – acceptant? No. Compliant? Not either. But warm, and leaning into him, and answering his kiss, certainly. It had been a wonder to feel her supple body press against his, to feel her fingers curl and fist his shirt to help her keep steady – and it had felt like a rough caress, too, a promise of nails grazing his skin in passion. And the very idea made his blood boil.

He had managed to keep around her all day long, to avoid her having to face her brother alone again.

But deep inside, he knew that the chieftain’s decision was ineluctable.

Society demanded that she got married again.

This culture didn’t tolerate celibacy well. Singles had to wed, widows and widowers had to remarry. As little as he had studied this people, Loki understood one thing: these people valued their patrimony and their duty.

As much as Eyð wanted him – if she ever wanted him – and as much as she wanted to annoy her bossy brother, she knew where her duty was. And she would accept it, eventually. Because her brother – and his wife, that disgusting, lecherous woman – had ensured to remind her of her duty to the family.

His time was running out.

If he wanted to have her, and he certainly wanted to, he had to shield her from their influence.

“Come back to bed, darling. Tomorrow we’ll sail back home.”

Tomorrow. Not in the morning.

They would have to convince Tórmoður to lend them a boat and let them sail back earlier than expected – and how long did the chieftain expect them to stay?

Guilt fell heavily over Loki’s shoulders, too.

They were both trapped here, and it was his fault. He had supported her brother when he wanted to make her come here for the festival. He had been smugly satisfied with himself when said brother decided that Loki would come, too. Because he would get to spend a few days alone with her, and he very much expected to finally end on top of her and between her thighs.

And where, where did his pitiful scheme lead them?

Here, on a pier, surrounded by boats he couldn’t sail all alone to bring her back home, where she belonged and would be safe.

Here, surrounded by her family who saw him as a sponger, if not as a foe.

Next to her in her bed, but tonight she was retreating from him. And he certainly didn’t want to have her in the common room like a common peasant, even if they could hide under the covers.

Nowhere.

As they walked back to the house and entered the covers, he didn’t dare to press himself against her back, and only laid next to her, staring at the ceiling. She rolled on her side, facing the wall, and his heart gave a painful squeeze at the thought that she was shying away from him.

Her breath was uneven.

Was she crying in silence?

He put a hand on his chest, not daring to touch her.

“Are you alright?”

Stupid question.

No, she wasn’t. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I’m cold.”

“Would you – “

She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence, turned and pressed herself to him. In a very proper way. Her forehead was leaning against his shoulder, but was not resting on it. She lifted her hands to lay them on his arm, just under the elbow. Chastely.

“Just to be warm”, she said. “Do not touch me more than that.”

“Mmmh.”

He tried to sound detached.

Maybe it was for the best. After all, he didn’t want to expose her by having sex in the common room, even if other couples hadn’t been so shy.

“It is normal to feel guilty. And it is normal to move on, there is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Shh. Don’t speak.”

“What are you afraid of?”

She kept silent.

He felt an irrepressible urge to press her. To elicit a reaction from her. To make her say something, or act. Because she accepted his kiss. Because she kissed him back, and the feel of her warm lips and wet tongue left him wanting for more warmth and more wetness from her.

“Would you feel this guilty if in your dream, your husband offered you to anyone else?”

Silence.

“To anyone else but me?”

Her fingers curled a bit on the skin of his arms. An involuntarily reaction?

“Hush, Loki.”

“What if I won’t?”

She stiffened, and he restrained a frustrated huff.

“Eyð.”

More silence.

He moved his arm to bring her head on his shoulder, and wrapped his other arm to hold her flush against him. A slight mix of relief and hope sparkled in his chest as she let him do as he wished. Her skin felt so warm, so close under the thin fabric of her shift.

So distractive.

“Eyð.”

“Leave me be.”

“No.”

A heavy sigh.

He well knew he could be annoying. But he was perseverant to a fault. When he wanted something – or someone, in this particular case – he didn’t spare his efforts until he got satisfaction.

And there was this peculiar question lingering in his mind: could he ever be sated of her?

However, holding her in the dark made it easier to say what he had to tell her. What he wanted her to hear, even if it meant that he had to push her.

“I didn’t kiss you to keep up with this sham. I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“Please hush”, she whined.

“I was under the strong impression that you liked my kiss well enough.”

A painful little noise, followed with silence. What was she thinking? How he missed his magic, at this right moment. How frustrated he was, not being able to read her mind when she so stubbornly refused to talk to him.

“I want to be your lover.”

She shuddered, and he rubbed the skin of her upper arm with his palm.

“You rejected me”, she breathed, almost inaudibly. Painfully.

His own guilt crushed his chest, emptying his lungs from any air, making him choke. He had to explain. He had to try and fix his mistake. Try to make up.

“I rejected the idea of a sacrifice.”

He waited a few instants. Mischief goaded him, and he couldn’t help adding playfully, “But a god might be receptive to devotion, you know.”

She whined and shook under a violent shiver. Or was it a silent sob? He screwed his eyes shut.

Nornir. Must he always ruin everything?

“Eyð? It was a joke, I –"

She breathed deeply, a few times, to calm herself.

“I’m sorry”, she whispered, rolling away from him. “I can’t fight the guilt tonight.”

***

“Let me go home.”

“Why so soon?”

She stiffened a huff. Tórmoður was casually sitting in a chair, his legs spread and hands resting on his strong thighs, his head tilted. Gauging her. She straightened her back in her own chair and pressed her lips before answering. A slave came silently and placed a light meal on the small table of Tórmoður’s private rooms. A plate of flat breads, dried fish, hard cheese, a pitcher of light ale.

“You know how much I hate crowds. You wanted me to come and celebrate, I obeyed. There is no more reason for you to make me uncomfortable with staying with so many people.”

“Because you want privacy with your lover?” he sneered.

She had a bitter smile. There was no point lying, all the more if it could irritate him.

“Yes. And because, as you said, I have to take care of my son’s patrimony.”

“Mmmh.”

Tórmoður picked a flat bread, tore it and rolled a piece of fish into it before shoving it in his mouth. He pushed the plate in her direction and she picked a bread too, but could only nibble at it.

“What if I don’t trust the haughty one enough to let him stay with you?”

No. No no no.

“I’d say you don’t know him.”

“Because you do?” he laughed.

No, of course. How could she know him? He was a god. He wasn’t just any god. But could she even say she knew the god of Lies? She shook her head.

“He’s earned my trust. He helped me.”

“Well, don’t you have slaves to help you?”

“You gave him to me to be a slave. I used him as a slave.”

“And then what? Did you command him to fuck you?”

She stood so abruptly she almost knocked her chair over.

“Apologise.”

“For what? Telling the truth?”

She clenched her fists into balls to keep her hand in control. She couldn’t strike him across the face, no matter how much she wanted to. It wouldn’t do her any good.

“It’s not the truth. You’re being unjust. You’re behaving like a – moron, just to hurt me!”

“A moron, indeed?” he laughed bitterly.

“Why, yes, when you’re saying such idiocies.”

She was firm and steady. Standing her ground. He gave her a long gaze before pressing his lips and swallowing.

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t say she was satisfied with this poor apology, but it was better than nothing. She took a deep breath to calm herself and sat back.

“So, what he did do to deserve your trust?”

“He works hard. He repaired the leaking roofs, and believe me, this was hard work. He feeds the stock and scraps the manure. He helped with the autumn slaughter.”

“He hit a free man. Broke his nose.”

“Arni was ready to strangle me!”

“Was he?”

He gave her a suspicious look.

“Be as it may, you look eager to take his defence.”

She snorted.

“I was attacked by a big seal-bull. He killed the beast. He saved me.”

It was true. He saved her, in more than one way. She hadn’t time to dwell on such thoughts, though, for her brother asked, his tone very guarded, “Are you in love?”

She snorted.

“Can I afford it?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t answer with another question.”

Oh. Right. His little game for power.

“It’s the only answer you’ll have.”

They kept silent a few minutes, gauging one another.

Love wasn’t a something she could afford. She’d better not think about it. What could she feel? Desire seemed allowed. She could worship the god, once he’ll be departed. Devotion seemed to be a fitting feeling for a god. But her thoughts were painful. How could it end well? Loki couldn’t commit with a mortal. She would only be left behind. But for now, for now, she could glean tiny moments of affection and pleasure, to feed her memory in anticipation of a loveless future.

“Let us leave, Tórmoður. Please.”

“You won’t marry him.”

“I know.”

“But maybe if you’re being reasonable, I can agree with a few weeks of – leisure.”

She gasped, managing to keep quiet though, and quickly pressed her lips together, lifting her gaze to the ceiling to hide the sudden tears that threatened to well in her eyes. Be reasonable. Remarry. Think of your reputation. Bring honour upon the family. She hadn’t any choice but to obey, had she? She knew this. She knew. She just hoped so hard that she’d have a little more time before she’d have to –

After a few breaths, she blinked and set a composed stare on him.

“I understand. I have only one request.”

Tórmoður rose his brows in curiosity.

“Let me chose my husband. Don’t trade me to some boorish brute of yours.”

He laughed.

“Have you been thinking about someone already?”

She shook her head negatively.

“Just – not Ólafur, or worse, Arni or Kolfinnr.”

“Why not?”

“I – I despise them. And they look like boars.”

“So you’d fancy a pretty face, eh?”

She could only think of one pretty face. One with high cheekbones, and sea foam green eyes, and jetty hair contrasting with fair skin.

“What about Eyvind?”

The question took her out of her musing.

“What about him?”

“I take it women find him handsome.”

“He is.” She had enjoyed pointing him to Loki. No, it wasn’t true. She had enjoyed Loki’s jealousy when she mentioned she saw beauty in this stern man. And she did. But luckily he couldn’t be counted as a suitor. “And he’s already married”, she added.

“No, dearest. His wife died in childbirth along with the baby. Just a moon ago. A pity.”

Chapter Text

I'm turning in my bed
And my mind twists like a whirlwind hell
I'm rolling in my bed
Wrapped up in your binding spell

GusGus, “Be with me”

XX.

Sleep didn’t come.

Little Ásgeir was sound asleep in his crib, well protected from the cold by thick covers and sheepskin. And the whole household seemed to be plunged in a deep slumber, too.

Sleep should have come, though, for they had an exhausting and dreadful sailing back to Svínoy. The boat surfed on the long waves because of the tailwind, and Eyð hated the sliding sensation. It made her feel that the boat wasn’t under control at all. Thinking of it later, she understood that they hadn’t really been in danger, but the sailing was though, and she should have been resting in a well-deserved sleep.

But she was wide awake in her bed. Alone.

Missing her dark god’s presence. Because, as infuriating as he could sometimes be, he had been very supportive these past two days. Supportive, and quite possessive, too.

Ostentatiously jealous when Ólafur dared to mention his horrid marriage proposal during the feast. The way he had snaked his hand around her waist and grabbed her horn to drink from it had been so possessive, so – oh. A delicious shiver made her skin erect with goose flesh, and she bit he lower lip. He had also been laying claim upon her when her brother observed them from afar, kissing her like she was his. Kissing her in an indecent way. The very memory made her face blush and her skin prickle with – she had to face it – desire.

The god had awoken something in her that she thought was dormant since her son’s birth.

The god.

What would it be to be his? Because he seemed to be possessive, didn’t he? He already called her darling, after only a few kisses. What would he call her here, in her very bed?

Her blood stirred in her veins, making her feel warm, making her skin feel tight and sensitive. The contact of her linen nightshift practically irritated her erected nipples.

And her thighs, oh, her thighs – their restless muscles were agitated with shivers and tremors, their skin felt oversensitive, and what was to be said of the inner skin?

Eyð tentatively brushed it with her fingertips, in attempt of finding some relief.

Oh.

She had to bit her lower lip.

It only worsened the sensation.

It tingled, and teased, and burned. And it didn’t bring solace at all.

She sighed heavily.

And her mind, her treacherous mind played with her, imposing images of him behind her closed eyelids. Imposing memories of the day he tossed his dirty shirt on the floor of the bath house – undoubtedly showing off, now that she thought of it – and what a show it had been!

The smooth expense of perfect, fair skin over strong muscles, the width of his shoulders contrasting with his narrow hips. His straightened spine and royal, stately demeanour. His strong will and haughtiness showing in the very way he carried his body. Oh, by the Æsir. How could such dominance leave her indifferent? How was she supposed to be reacting to – this?

And her memory imposed other memories. The feeling of him. The firmness of his chest as she slept on his shoulder. His strong, steady heartbeat. His scent – cold air and spruce and fresh sweat. The pleasant weight of his arm around her waist. The hardness of his hipbone against her belly.

Oh.

Freyja, help me.

Why wasn’t he here with her, in her bed?

Why was he in his sleeping bench, in the skáli, and not here with her, where she wanted him the most?

Because chastely sharing a sleeping bench with him during two nights could only lead her to want more.

Chastely.

She was the only one to blame for this chastity.

On the first night, she had been drunk. More than drunk. Pissed as a newt. Would he have wanted to have sex with her, she wouldn’t have felt anything at all.

On the second night, he confessed his desire. No doubt the darkness made it easier to whisper confessions. But still. He confessed, and she rejected him because her dream made her feel guilty.

And she didn’t managed not to sound pitiful, weak creature that she was.

And now, now that she managed to talk her brother into sending them home – at what cost? –, now that she was safe again on dry land and in her farm, now that she felt her body was begging for attention, that her desire was stronger than her guilt – I’ll deal with it later – she kept distant and composed during the evening, and passed to her bedroom without a word or a glance at him. Not even knowing why.

And he was just there.

In the next room.

So close, and so far away at the same time.

Her hand went up to her belly, hiking up the shift, letting the fabric graze her skin, leaving her half-naked under her heavy covers.

Error. Massive error.

The texture of the covers only worsened the sensitivity of her skin, and the contact of her fingers on her belly was – oh, Freyja.

Squeezing her thighs together did nothing, either, but make her more accurately conscious of the wetness and ache and – emptiness?

Of the want.

She brushed her fingertips on her folds, only to confirm the obvious: she was wet, and warm – no, hot – and –

She wanted him. She needed him.

Memories of his first kiss surged with force. The raw need, the brutality he had exerted over her – and even then, it had been intense. Brief and intense and consuming. It had been just like being struck by lightning. Quick and blazind, and it had lit a fire in her veins that left her wanting and longing for more. If he hadn’t kissed her in Árnafjørður, she could almost have convinced herself that he had kissed her by accident.

But cupping her face like he did in the dawning light of the day after the feast, holding her tightly and strongly, demanding and dominant, tilting her head to give him deeper access, this wasn’t an accident. It was very much controlled and deliberate claiming. It was showing off and subduing at the same time. Because he demonstrated to her brother as much as he conquered her. Wasn’t it like their game of hnefatafl? All his pawns surrounded her, and she was about to willingly give herself and enjoy let him win. Loki was undoubtedly in great control of himself. Undoubtedly experienced, to elicit such strong reactions from her with only two kisses.

Her fingers caressing her flesh brought no relief. She whined pathetically and rolled on her belly, tentatively pressing her hips in the mattress, her teeth gritted and brows furrowed in frustration.

What was a god capable of? What would it be like to feel his skin brush against hers? To feel his hands on her body? To hear his deep, gravelling voice whispering in her ear?

Oh, Freyja, she prayed again. Help me.

Take this desire away from me.

Or give him to me.

Because, why was he in the other room if he wanted her as he confessed? Why hadn’t he followed her in her room?

Because you were cold to him, you stupid. You deterred him. You ruined everything.

He seemed quite comprehensive, though, when he talked about her guilt. He talked, because she retreated into silence, even though he pressed her to make her speak to him, last night, after her dream. She felt she ruined everything because she had the strong impression that she betrayed him when she made this half-promise to her brother.

I have only one request. Let me chose my husband.

Why did she say that?

Why did she agree to consider Eyvind as a suitor? She barely knew the man. He was certainly very handsome, but was beauty the assurance of a happy – or at least bearable – marriage? Tórmoður said he was of good reputation. Maybe a bit stern and melancholic, but honest, truthful, loyal. What could she expect? She wasn’t wealthy, and Eyvind was much richer than her. If he would have her, maybe she would be lucky, after all.

Why did she offer to bind her life to another’s?

The answer was very simple. She thought she could buy a few weeks of respite – a few weeks spent with Loki, before her brother tried to exchange him for ransom. Or before she managed to open his shackle. Because he couldn’t be hers. Because he was immortal, which she was very much not. Because he longed to go back to his kin. Because she had a role to play in his freedom, and selfishly wanted to feast on any tiny moment she could have with him before he left her.

If she wanted to have these moments, she had to be brave, not to lament on herself in her bed. A god might be receptive to devotion, he said. Was she devoted to him? How could she tell? She couldn’t think straight, and her body screamed with desire, right now, throwing the guilt away. She had to make a decision.

***

Loki was laying on his back, eyes wide open, very much awake.

Inly castigating himself for not having followed Eyð in her room. For not having snuck in it. For not having joined her in her bed, and pulled her nightshift off, kissed her breasts and belly and –

Stop.

Thinking like this won’t help.

Laying bare chest, the covers pushed down to his waist in a vain attempt to let the chilly air cool down his skin, he waited. Breathing slow and deep to calm down and control his heartbeat. Both arms tucked under his head to keep his hands in check.

The day had been trying.

Eyð had finally fallen asleep after he brought her back to bed, last night. She had a fitful night and he let her rest while he finally rose, unable to sleep anymore, because he couldn’t bear being so close to her after his confession, couldn’t bear not being able to touch her the way he wanted so much, after his confession.

I want to be your lover.

He talked to her brother to convince him of sending them back in Svínoy. She worried about her two old slaves being too old to make it with all the chores, he said. She was thinking of what her brother demanded from her, he said. It wasn’t a lie. She was indeed thinking of it. He knew it. He knew she lied to him, the very god of Lies, even if it was by omission, because she went to talk to her brother and he overheard what she agreed to. The mere thought of it was making his body and soul burn with jealousy.

Don’t think of it.

Finally, he chieftain accepted what they pleaded for one after the other, and sent them aboard a fishing boat with higher planking to face the rough winter sea. The crossing was uncomfortable and Eyð sent him terrified glances. She hated sailing, all the more after her husband drowned.

If he hadn’t been very busy with helping the sailors, he would have hugged her, reassured her, comforted her until the journey was over. But he had to let her endure this torture alone. This torture he was responsible for, selfish as he was, because he insisted in the first place that she accompanied her brother for the celebration.

When they eventually made it to Svínoy, he helped her to get out of the boat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to support her, for her fear had drained her forces. He took the baby and held him in his other arm as they walked their way up to the farm. It was odd, holding them both like that. Odd, but not unpleasant. It was almost domestic. Almost like having a family of his own. The thought made him smile, but it felt strange. He never really gave it a thought before. Of course, he knew he would get married, someday, to some princess likely chosen by Odin and Frigga to ensure political alliances. But of course, Eyð and little Ásgeir would never be his family. Odin would forbid it. Loki would even have to hide them, to shelter them from Odin’s eyes, for he didn’t trust the Allfather not to kill them himself, or have them killed.

As they entered the cove, there was a sudden bad turn in the weather, and Eyð offered the sailors to stay overnight, not to send them to a more perilous journey. Gentle and generous as ever, and her goodness made his heart warm.

The old dog greeted them with a joyful barks and a waving tail, and Loki surprised himself with fondling its thick fur. The slaves were happy to see them back. And Loki had to admit it, he was oddly happy to see Ronan again. The man had a way to be appreciated. To be liked, even, if the god had to confess, which he would never do – even under the seal of secrecy, even under torture. With his feigned candour and witty uncouthness, he had a much deeper personality than Loki would have thought at first. If he had to confess, too, he wouldn’t have even bothered getting to know the man if it had been only for him. But Ronan was curious, and liked to chat, and had stubbornly searched Loki’s company. But could Loki, for all of that, count Ronan as a friend? No, absolutely not. Because a god wasn’t to make friends with mortals, all the more if they were slaves. And because Loki didn’t make a habit of making friends. No, Ronan’s conversations – his annoying, tedious, intrusive conversations – were merely recreational.

And as the evening drew, as the dog was comfortably resting between his feet, he easily noticed there was something amiss with Eyð. She shied away from him. Kept silent. Kept distant.

Was it because of what he confessed in the dark? Was his acknowledging his desire too sudden for her?

Was it because of what she kept quiet about?

She had promised to remarry.

She considered marrying Eyvind.

To placate her brother, he understood it, but still she had promised. He overheard her while she was in the private rooms of her brother, in the back of the langhallr, and he used his godly hearing to spy upon the siblings’ conversation, sly and sneaky as he was. He didn’t even try not listening to what he was not supposed hearing. It was like second nature and he couldn’t help himself. He had to know what Eyð and Tórmoður were talking about, what the chieftain was scheming, what plans he had for her.

Could he say to her that he knew about it all? Should he wait until she decided to tell him? Likely the latter. If she really trusted him, she would tell him. She would explain.

He felt that she wasn’t sincere when she talked with her brother, that she had to say something to get out of the trap that their sojourning in Árnafjørður was, but the very thought of her in Eyvind’s bed ignited a burning jealousy in the pit of his stomach, that threatened to spread in his veins. It urged him to get out of his bed, and go to hers. To claim her. To make her his, to bite her, to mark her as his for all to see. To drive her so mad with pleasure that the only thing she could remember was his name and, well, the feeling of him inside her.

A soft sound distracted him from his dark musings.

Was it a sigh, coming from her room?

He held his breath, paying attention to the darkness. Deep breaths. Light snores. He must have imagined it. She was likely asleep. Was she having another nightmare? She was prone to bad dreams – even when she slept in his arms, he thought bitterly.

Don’t think about holding her. Don’t think about this sigh.

Too late. How would it be, to be the one to elicit a sigh from her? To hear her make such a sound against his skin? To caress the pretty breasts he had seen on the solstice night when she discarded her garments? To make her shiver and writhe and –

All his efforts were instantly utterly ruined. All his musing about anything else but her body and lips, the fact that he prudently kept his hands far away from his loins and that he tried to limit the friction on his skin served to nothing. In a few seconds, he found himself painfully erect and very much restrained in his trousers. For he had kept his trousers in a vain attempt to avoid this kind of reaction.

Another sound, and his breath caught in his throat.

Definitely not a sigh.

Was it – a whimper?

Nornir.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she was waiting for him, maybe she was too shy to dare coming to him, and was waiting for him, and felt rejected because he stayed there in his bed and –

He kicked the covers to get them out the way and jumped on his feet.

He had to find out for sure. He had to.

He strode to the curtain that closed her room and –

– and she was standing there, just there, in front of him, her hand resting on the curtain as she moved it aside, looking feverish and dishevelled, only wearing a wrinkled sleeveless nightshift. Beautiful and perfect.

And she gasped at seeing him.

“I –“, she whispered, interrupting herself, her eyes lowering to his bare chest. Widening and darkening further in spite of the sparse light.

His mouth went dry. He couldn’t think straight and stayed frozen there, staring at her with wide eyes, at a loss for words.

She gulped heavily.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

Loki waited for her to speak. Never a moment looked so long to him. Never did it feel so torturous. He held his breath and managed to keep still with a supreme effort of self-control that made his muscles stiffen and almost cramp under the tension, waiting for her to announce her decision. She lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I choose devotion.”

Chapter Text

He said “Dance for me, fanciulla gentile”
He said “Laugh awhile, I can make your heart feel”
He said “Fly with me, touch the face of the true God
And then cry with joy at the depth of my love”

PJ Harvey – “The Dancer”

XXI.

By the Æsir, he was glorious in his half-naked state, his perfect torso exposed to her eyes, slender but hard and strong, a line of dark hair descending from his navel down to – what was hidden in his trousers.

As much as he had stood frozen and tense until she spoke, he now acted feverish and frantic. He just but leaped upon her, swiftly bent to put his long hands on the back of her thighs and lift her – and she had no choice but slide her arms around his neck for support and spread her legs to wrap them around his narrow waist as he walked them to her room.

Oh, Gods.

This God.

Her God.

His lips were on hers as soon as he carried her, firm and warm, but also demanding, bruising, in the imperious way he had already kissed her.

As a god. Taking what was rightfully his.

And it made her shiver in his arms and whimper in his mouth.

He slammed her against the wooden wall, pressing against her, and she felt more than she heard the low rumble deep inside his chest, an animalistic sound vibrating so close to her skin. He supported her with his large hands, all the while palming her buttocks and digging in her flesh. Kissing her like he had kissed her that first time, outside the drying shed, raw and demanding, and even more, because she responded each stroke of his tongue against hers, and it seemed to drive him mad.

It made blood rush to her head. He was always very much in control except when he touched her. She was the one making him lose control. She had this power, weak mortal that she was. And he did the same to her.

Feeling his skin and taut muscles under her fingers, feeling his hard hips pressing in the inside of her thighs, his erection grinding against her sex, all of it was making coherent thoughts impossible. She whined and bit his bottom lip, sucking it between her own, and he groaned a muttered curse, lifting her and pressing her even more in search of proximity and friction.

She too arched her back to press her belly and breasts against his chest, the fabric of her nightshift creating unbearable friction on her erect nipples. She removed a hand from his neck to pull at the string that held her collar and tugged at the cloth. Loki carefully put her on her feet and grabbed the nightshift, pulling it above her head as she compliantly lifted her arms, and tossing it on the floor. Immediately his hands were – ah – everywhere on her skin and his mouth found her neck, kissing and licking and nibbling at the tender skin, while he slipped a knee between her legs to push his leg against her sex.

Oh.

Oh.

She let a pitiful whine that only seemed to spur him further, and as the friction with his thigh increased, she answered, undulating her hips to grind down against his trousers. One of his hands went to her breasts, fondling the soft skin, rolling a nipple between expert fingers, whereas the other kneaded the flesh of her bum.

It felt too – it was too – she was already on the verge of –

He sunk his teeth in the skin between her neck and shoulders, and the sharp mix of pleasure and pain made her screw her eyes shut and writhe in his arms as pleasure erupted from nowhere and she tried to prolong it, rubbing herself onto him.

He pulled back just enough to bring his face close to hers, and she forced herself to open her eyes as she shuddered and tried to control her ragged breath. And caught a glimpse of how his lips curled in a very, very smug grin. Infuriatingly arrogant, she thought even though a feeling that had nothing to do with anger rose bloomed her.

“So soon, darling?”

She slumped against the wall, unable to speak, and his arms snaked around her back to support her.

“I’m not nearly done with you yet”, he growled, and scooped her in his arms to deposit her on her bed. She slid her hands on his arms, down to his hands, and took his fingers in hers, reluctant to break their contact.

He was still smirking, but she didn’t feel irritated by his smugness. On the contrary, his smile made her bold.

She was naked, lying on her bed, and he was intently watching her. It made her think of the night he killed the seal and brought her back here to the safety of the house. But tonight, tonight she wouldn’t turn away from him. She pulled at his hands to encourage him to join her.

“Undress”, she breathed.

“Who are you speaking to?”

She gasped at the dark authority dripping in his voice.

“You settled for devotion, didn’t you?”

Oh. By the Æsir, she should have known it. His smugness, his arrogance. Devilish god of Mischief. It made her rub her thighs together.

“Please, my god, she whispered. Please undress.”

“You’re a quick learner”, he drawled, pushing his trousers past his hips and down to his ankles, kicking his feet out of the garment.

He stood stark naked save for his collar, a black line contrasting with his pale skin, the only sign of his weakness, because he stood there in full force and authority. So tall and strong beside her bed, looking down at her, and she felt small and fragile and – what had she gotten herself into? He looked formidable, with his tousled hair, his heaving chest and perfect body, his cock standing proud and stiff in its nest of black curls. He was – well endowed – thick and heavy. She lifted her eyes to his face, feeling uneasy. His eyes were feral and he had an almost mad smile, his lips curled and teeth bare, as if about to bite her, to devour her.

The memory of his voice surged in Eyð’s mind.

You shouldn’t do anything of the sort anymore, unless you’re ready to face the consequences.

Was it what he had meant that day, when they were at the summit? The consequences? Was she about to be consumed by the god? How different was it from a sacrifice?

He joined her, kneeling between her parted legs, and she extended her hands to him, in an invitation to come closer. She nearly couldn’t bear to have him this far from her. Now she needed to feel his skin on hers, to search contact, and she sighed heavily as he indulged, leaning upon her and capturing her lips with his. Bracing himself on one elbow, he fondled her skin down to her nether lips, smiling in self-satisfaction and letting a short, deep chortle at the feeling of how wet and swollen she was. He slid a long finger into her and pressed the pad of his thumb to the bundle of nerves that was above her lips.

Pleasure coursed through her, and she bucked her hips, taking his finger deeper, and he chortled more.

“My perfect little believer”, he praised. “So ready, so devoted to me.”

He gave a few strokes before shoving a second finger and pressing deep inside, making her hiss.

“Is it what you meant?” she dared to whisper. “When you warned me about facing the consequences. Are you going to be rough with me?”

He nibbled at her lips, then went down to her throat and peppered kisses and light bites, taking his fair time, not answering.

“I already told you I’m not a benevolent god”, he finally growled.

She shivered at his deep, velvety voice. Not from fear, no, because she trusted him. From something dark and thrilling in the way his voice drawled.

“Once I’ve had you, there will be no turning back. You will be mine, darling, and there shall be no room for another.”

He caged her between his elbows and she gasped as he ducked to her chest and bit her breast.

Blood pounded in her ears, she could hear her own pulse. His words were so possessive, so dark, and – was there a hidden threat behind what he said? Did he know about what she agreed to? She didn’t want to think about that right now.

He brought her to task with another bite.

“What do you say, darling?”

She decided for devotion. Hadn’t she promised it since the very beginning, since the day he revealed his true nature to her?

“Yes. Yes, my god.”

He growled, and with a jolt of his hips, surged into her, only an inch, and the head of his shaft felt so – so much – she let a loud gasp.

“Wait!”

He stopped with a sharp inhale, every muscle tensed, lifting his head enough to study her features. His jaw was clenched. Did she make him angry? Apprehension suddenly made her stomach churn.

“Please, it’s been quite some time. Please be gentle”, she all but begged.

He released a shaky breath and gave her a tender, reassuring kiss.

“Don’t be afraid”, he breathed, and she nodded faintly.

He rocked a little more into her, before slightly retreating, then surged again.

“Are you in pain?”

She shook her head, unable to speak as her body adjusted around him.

Even though she was no virgin, even though she was a mother, she felt stretched in a way that brought her pleasure sharpened with just a hint of pain. She didn’t want to think about her wedding night, it was no pleasant memory, but – during all the nights she spent with Ásgeir, she never felt so overwhelmed. Ever.

Loki continued to thrust further, deeper, slowly, his body tensed and breath shallow. As much as he lacked control when he kissed her earlier, he was now very much restraining himself, and it reassured her. She watched his face. His eyes were shut and his brows furrowed in concentration. Trusting him, she brought her knees higher, against his ribs, in attempt to take him deeper, and his hiss made her skin prickle with pleasure. He stopped, almost shaking in her arms.

“Are you alright?” he croaked.

“Yes.”

He leaned his brow upon hers, evidently struggling to keep still and wait for her.

“You can move”, she breathed, and he released a sigh of relief.

Almost immediately, he rolled his hips against hers in slow, shallow moves and she gasped at the feeling of him. After a few moments, her body relaxed and accepted him pliantly. Delicious sensations helped her to accommodate with his thickness and delectable shivers coursed on her skin.

Eyð brought one hand to his face, cupped his cheek, and brought him to kiss her. She liked his kisses so much. It was like cold and wintery, almost like tasting fresh snow.

He retreated to surge back with more force.

“Are you alright?” he grunted in her mouth, his words hoarse and effortful.

“Yes.”

Her answer was just a strangled breath.

“May I –“

“Anything”, she whined.

He hooked a hand under her knee to hike her leg up against his ribs, and brushed his nose against her temple as he gave a deep, forceful thrust that brought his pubic bone flush against hers and made them groan together.

“Freyja”, she panted, digging her nails in the strong muscles of his back.

“Leave my aunt out of this”, he rasped, and her soft laugh turned into a moan as he surged forward with full force.

“Reverence”, he chided softly, nibbling at the lobe of her ear.

She tilted her hips to his, taking him deeper, very pleased with his shudder.

“This is worship”, she whispered in his ear, and the strangled sound at the back of his throat made her insides clench involuntarily around him, which elicited another groan.

She wrapped her arms around him to press his skin against hers, his chest deliciously brushing her nipples, pleasure building again in her lower belly. She could tease him too, couldn’t she? What was a little mischief to him?

“My dark god fills me with rapture”, she whispered again, very much intending to tease him, and he snarled, slowly, very slowly pulling back almost all the way before slamming back into her. Her head jerked back and she let a hoarse shout, and he did it again, again, again, soon making her unable of thinking straight.

“Look at you”, he teased in turn, “pleasing your god so well. My little priestess, so small and fragile beneath me. So perfect for me.”

She whined incoherently, and through her half-closed eyelids she saw that he had the audacity to smirk, keeping on his torturous rhythm, continuing his dark, graveling murmurs. My very own priestess, letting me drive her mad with pleasure – making the prettiest sounds – looking so beautiful as I fuck her –

And he bent to capture her lips with his, his tongue dominantly delving in her mouth, a hand fondling her breast – and as he bent, his hips found a different angle, one that made the corners of her eyes go white and her back arch to meet him and a hoarse sigh bubble up from her throat. And he pounded hard and fast, intently watching her with a gleam of triumph in his eyes as her insides tightened, as the pleasure was both too much and not quite enough and –

“Now you’re mine”, he growled against her lips, low and deep and predatory.

Something broke inside her, and pleasure washed over her like a wave, hitting her with full force, making her shake and writhe even though she was pinned under his now erratic thrusts.

***

She was beautiful. She was beautiful and she was his. Writhing and moaning and sighing underneath him, her burnt-gold hair fanning on the pillow. She dared teasing him with her soft words of adoration, flattering his conscience of being a deity, the little minx, and now she was falling into her own trap, her pleasure increasing at his whispered praises.

My perfect priestess, worshipping her god with her body.

So pretty in this sacred union.

So beautifully writhing underneath her god.

And how beautiful she was indeed, with her flushed face and chest, her rosy nipples hard and erect in pleasure, her pink lips emitting the loveliest sounds as he rocked into her and brought her to ecstasy.

He very much intended to ruin her, to make her come many times, but pleasure surprised him as she strongly clenched around him with a hoarse cry, and he retreated just in time to spend his seed on the white, tender skin of her belly.

After all, he didn’t know if humans could bear crossbreed children, and he had just the minimal glimpse of lucidity on the verge of his orgasm not to find himself wanting to accidentally find out.

He collapsed on her, his ears ringing and breath ragged, his face in the crook of her neck, immediately overwhelmed by – what ? What was this feeling? – as Eyð wrapped her arms around his back, almost to cradle him, and hummed in satisfaction against his jaw. He quickly rolled on his back though, caging her in his arms and bringing her on his chest where she settled with a sigh. Was she content? Was she sore?

What could he say? He had been rougher than intended, because she made him lose control.

“I’m afraid I got carried away”, he whispered apologetically.

“You didn’t hurt me. I liked it”, she sighed, nestling against him.

He smiled to himself, in satisfaction and pride.

“So Freyja’s your aunt?” she whispered playfully.

“Yes.”

She giggled.

“And you don’t think of her as highly erotic?”

He laughed too, in the back of his throat, and the sound seemed to make her press further against his skin. How he liked it, the way she almost tried to meld against him.

“I don’t. Especially while I’m busy having you.”

Oh, the delicious blush on her cheeks, making them look like plump rosebuds.

“Don’t you – um – get along with her?”

Her question was cautious, almost shy. She hadn’t asked about his family for some time now. He answered honestly.

“She fucked nine dwarves in exchange of a necklace. This made her lose my respect.”

“An enchanted necklace.”

Her tone was playful and daring. He tickled her sides in punishment for her bold answer, and she burst in laughter, contorting under his fingers.

“You naughty woman, would you do the same?”

She laughed and yelped in protest.

“Only you”, she panted. “And I’d have little use of a such a jewel.”

“So what do you want?”

“From you? Nothing in particular.”

His heart fell at her answer. She didn’t expect anything. But also, what could he offer? He was trapped in this island without any seiðr, very much in thraldom, indeed. She must have felt him freeze, for she propped herself on an elbow and brought her hand to his cheek to make him look at her. She was watching his with shining eyes, and a tender smile, her cheeks rosy from pleasure.

“I just want to be free, and laugh, and give myself to you. Nothing but very simple things.”

He closed his arms around her lithe body and kissed her.

How could he not kiss her?

She asked for nothing but sharing time and happiness with him. Nobody ever asked for such thing from him. She was truly devoted, so selfless, so generous. He felt that his chest expanded under a strong emotion that he struggled to recognize.

His priestess.

His mistress.

The word came naturally to his mind. He had been calling her that in derision for weeks. But now, now, she was his mistress indeed, for he was hers as much as she was his.

“You are so lovely, darling Eyð”, he whispered in her ear, caressing her hair and arms, tugging the covers above them to protect them from the cold and the outer world. “So perfect, so caring.”

She hummed with contentment in his arms, right against his heart, as he cradled her to sleep.

Chapter Text

Morse coding signals (signals)
They pulsate (they wake me up)
They wake me up (pulsate)
From my hibernating (wake me up from my hibernating)

Björk, “Pagan Poetry”

XXII.

Loki couldn’t tear his eyes from the baby suckling Eyð’s nipple. His fine, copper hair, his chubby hands touching his mother’s skin, the sound of his breathing as he gulped voraciously. The tiny being was strong and eager to live.

Eyð and Loki were laying face to face in her bed, the baby between them feeding from his mother’s breasts. It was fascinating. Such simple love shared between mother and son. Loki wondered whether he would ever see a child of his feed on their mother like this.

Don’t get emotional.

He had children, though.

Children considered as monsters. Because, well, they were. They were his children though, and he alone had a semblance of authority upon them. Thinking of them would lead him to think of their mother, and he preferred avoiding it if he could.

Eyð’s son was cute and always smiled at him.

Cute? Loki, do get a grip –

It was strange, though, to watch the son of a man he happily watched dying. Because Loki couldn’t confess this to Eyð – never, ever, even under torture – he had laughed when Ásgeir was swept away by the wave and got dragged to the depths of the sea by the weight of his chainmail. It had been like a slight vengeance, to watch this brute, who had knocked him out, meet a stupid death. And it felt strange to protect his very son, who would without any possible doubt look like him.

Eyð lifted her eyes from little Ásgeir and set them on him, smiling. Her gaze was calm, unguarded, and full of affection. His attempt on hardening himself melted instantly like ice in the sun. 

“I never asked you –“ she offered.

“Mmmh?”

There was no trace of sorrow this morning, which he had dreaded, given that she struggled with her guilt now that she was moving on from her mourning. How could he not be appeased by her simple joy?

“How old are you?”

He gave a short chortle.

“Don’t laugh at me”, she whispered, but it was no reproach. It was said with a bright smile that spoke of happiness and hope.

“To you, I’ll look very old. But in fact, to my kin, I’m quite young. Time is not the same in the nine realms.”

Her eyes went wide.

Oh, he chided himself. She wasn’t ready for a conversation about time and its relativity. Her knowledge – human knowledge – wasn’t advanced enough for now. He cleared his throat.

“I’m a little past nine hundred winters.”

She burst in laughter.

“Now you’re the one who’s mocking”, he said playfully.

“I’m sorry”, she giggled with a shy smile. “It seems so – unreachable.”

“Believe me, I have at least another four thousand years to leave.”

She sighed.

“Now this is completely unfathomable. I can’t even think of anything that old.”

He nodded.

“Does it mean you’re as old as the ocean?”

“No. As I said, I’m young.”

He leaned towards her to kiss her lips. Softly, gently, like he never kissed her before. Almost reverently. And a poem surged in his mind, a Miðgardian poem he thought he had forgotten, and he whispered the verses all the while giving her light kisses.

"Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
Rumoresque senum severiorum
Omnes unius aestimemus assis !
Soles occidere et redire possunt ;
Nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
Nox est perpetua una dormienda.
Da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
Dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
Deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum ;
Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
Conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
Aut ne quis malus inuidere possit,
Cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.”

“Is this poetry?” she asked with a smile, curiosity flashing in her eyes.

Clever girl. Uneducated as she was, she intuitively understood the rythm and sonorities of poetry, even in a foreign language.

“This is a very old poem about kissing.”

“Oh.”

Her eyes dropped.

“What is it, darling?”

“Love poems are forbidden. They’re believed to magically seduce women.”

“Nonsense. Poetry finds its power in words, not in magic. By the way, I very much think that  I managed to seduce you without any help of poetry or magic.”

She laughed softly.

“What does it mean?”

“Catullus, the poet, invites his mistress to indulge into his kisses, to enjoy the moment and scorn the comments of people.”

A sorrowful shadow clouded her gaze, if just for a moment. He knew he had hit something painful. Yet wasn’t it the purpose of literature, to tell about feelings and emotions one could experience? To give a reflection of what one could live, and let them understand that they are not alone through this? To help one to become aware of feelings they couldn’t express if they lacked the words?

“This is what it means.

Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us judge all the rumors of the old men
to be worth just one coin!
The suns are able to fall and rise:
When that brief light has fallen for us,
we must sleep a never ending night.
Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred.”

He kissed her lips, and she smiled against his mouth.
“Then another thousand, then a second hundred.”

Kiss.
“Then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.”

Kiss.
“Then, when we have made many thousands,
we will mix them all up so that we don't know,
and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out
how many kisses we have shared.”

She extended her neck to lean into him and deepen the kiss, with a sound that was very much like a purr. Loki felt blood rush to his loins.

“It is as sad poem”, she whispered. “I wonder what happened to them.”

“They split. She was cruel to him.”

“He seemed to be so in love with her.”

He sighed, something strange blooming in his chest. He didn’t realized at first, when he remembered this poem, that it mentioned mortality. He thought of it as an invitation to seize the day and to enjoy the joy of kissing each other. But as he translated the text to Eyð, the mention of the alternation of night and day, the euphemism used for death filled his heart with dread. Eyð would, in time, sleep a never ending night. He closed his eyes and leaned his brow against hers.

“I like the passage about not caring about the jealous ones”, she whispered. “It reminded me of Tórmoður’s scowl, the morning I was so hungover. He looked jealous.”

Loki opened his eyes again. She was watching him, calm and observant, and he gave her a reassuring smile. Don’t frighten her. Don’t think about it. Seize the day.

“He is. Because you’re happy, and he’s not.”

“How petty of him.”

He let a chuckle through his nose.

“Don’t think of him”, he whispered, and sliding a hand on her shoulder, he leaned in, careful not to roll on little Ásgeir, and gave her a kiss she enthusiastically responded, opening her mouth and rolling her tongue against his.

It was oddly domestic, to be like this.

He never shared a bed with a woman before, let alone talk in bed with a woman nursing a baby. He couldn’t fathom such a moment with a wife chosen by Odin and Frigga. This intimacy, this affinity.

The moment he noticed the ruffling of the heavy curtain at the entrance of the room, a loud expletive resonated in the chamber.

“Frigga Almighty!”

They both turned their heads to a frozen Orla watching them with wide eyes.

There was no ambiguity in what the old slave saw, as their nakedness and kiss left little to the imagination.

Loki propped himself on an elbow, scowling at her.

“What are you looking at, old hag?” he snarled.

The old woman jolted out of the room, and he fell back on the mattress with a dark chortle.

“Don’t be mean to her.”

“I don’t need my mother to be invoked when I’m in bed with you.”

“That’s the price of being a god, I guess. Your family is always invoked in the end.”

Her dry humour made him laugh out loud. She never joked, absorbed in her grief as she was. Wasn’t it a sign that she allowed herself to move on?

“We’d better get up, anyway.”

***

Waking next to Loki was surprisingly simple. He wasn’t sleeping anymore, and was patiently waiting for her, holding her flush against his bare chest, and greeted her with a tender smile. Did she imagine the fondness in his green eyes? Maybe, for the room was sparsely lit.

Little Ásgeir was awake, too, wriggling around in his crib.

Loki sat on the edge of the bed, picked the boy and handed him to her, very naturally.

It was strange, but comforting.

The day before, when they beached the boat and got out, he carried her son to the house and supported her after this dreadful sailing. And now in the morning, after he so passionately took her – and heat immediately pooled in her lower belly at the thought of his strength and scent and dark whispers in her ear – he behaved so easily like a companion. Like a partner. Almost like a father. Transfixed by the sight of her baby feeding on her milk, and whispering poetry in the dark.

Her heart melted at his words.

Poetry was magic, whatever he said, and this poem both comforted her and reminded her that they had little time to share.

Let’s follow this Catullus’ advice. Let us live, and let us love.

But be careful.

She was feeling so fond of him, this morning. It was very likely a reaction of the pleasure he had given her, as well as an effect of the poem. Poetry was dangerous because it was magic, everyone knew it. She had to keep a cold head while making the most of the moments she would share with him.

After all, she couldn’t afford to fall in love. Not with him.

Yet, she felt like a weight had been taken from off her chest. She felt she was able to breathe again. She felt lighter, and eager to live. Just as if she had been dragged to the bottom of the sea these past weeks, but had kicked to ground and was now heading to the surface.

Maybe it was also the magic of the solstice. Winter wasn’t over yet, but it would very soon be lighter every day. Maybe mourning was just the same, plunging head first into the darkness of autumn, and suddenly, one day, without knowing how, finding oneself lit with bright sunrays that hadn’t been noticed for months, even though they had been here, waiting to be seen.

Her grief wasn’t gone, though. It just felt – less heavy. Bearable.

The poem Loki whispered was about youth and love, but it also mentioned death, as a warning. Seize the day. Enjoy life. Allow yourself to love me, the god could practically have whispered in her ear. And Eyð found that she indeed wanted to indulge. Because she had love to give.

She tried not to think of her brother, of the foolish promise she had made. But the line about jealousy brought up the memory of Tórmoður, scowling at them after Loki kissed her on the beach the morning after the celebration. The kiss had been obvious transgression and challenge, and her brother looked so jealous.

“Don’t think of him”, Loki purred, leaning in to kiss her again.

He was right. There was nothing she could do by now but enjoy whatever time they could share and brace herself for whatever was to come. She kissed him back, and his hand on her shoulder felt heavier as he pressed his fingers in her flesh, not totally a grip, but it felt like he was holding onto her. It made her smile against his lips. She had the intuition that she reassured him as much as he reassured her, and it made her heart glow with happiness and pride.

Orla’s croak startled them both, and Loki’s cocky indignation had her bite her lower lip to stiffen a laughter. The old slave would without any doubt lecture her about the dangers of having the god of Chaos in her bed, but Eyð couldn’t care less for now. She only felt a pang of frustration as Loki sat on the edge of the bed and put his trousers on. They had to go back to reality.

“I left my shirt in my sleeping bench”, he muttered, and she smiled at the idea that he would have to enter the skáli half-naked.

She dressed quickly, slipping in her practical breeches and long tunic, before passing to the main room where the whole household was gathering to share breakfast. She sat, little Ásgeir in her lap, and tried her best to keep a composed figure in front of her brother’s sailors. Judging by the howling of the wind outside, they would have to stay longer, and she felt vaguely irritated. The men shifted their gazes from her to Loki, making conclusions. They had known Ásgeir, had fought along with him, and Loki had caused them trouble after his capture.

Orla presented her a plate of food which she took with a smile, ignoring the alarmed look of the old slave. She didn’t miss, however, the wink and knowing smile that Ronan addressed to Loki, who was now fully dressed and sitting on a stool – nor the playful huff that was her lover’s answer.

Her lover.

The thought made her blush and bite her lips.

It was so subversive, to openly have a lover. It was rebellion against her brother’s authority. The sailors weren’t daft, and would in all likelihood report to Tórmoður.

She straightened in her chair and watched them with a composed, calm gaze and a brave face, putting on the show of authority she had so often taken upon herself during the autumn and the beginning of winter.

Because if she didn’t seize the day, as Catullus enjoined Lesbia, she would live a lifelong of regrets.

Let us live, and let us love.

She had made her choice, and would have to bear the consequences.

“I’m going to check the ewes”, she said, rising to her feet, as soon as she finished her meal. “Will you help me?” she asked to Loki as she passed before him.

“Of course, mistress.”

His deep voice made her shiver. Or was it the new implication of the title he gave her? She did her best to keep her composure and strode to the sheep pen, very aware that he followed her and let her take the lead to keep up with their sham of authority. But as soon as they crossed the threshold of the building and the strong smell of the stock made her blink, he slammed the door closed and gathered her in his arms, his lips hungry and demanding upon hers, taking her breath away.

He pushed her against the door, slipping his hands under her tunic, fondling the soft skin of her waist, and she couldn’t help sighing in his mouth as the calloused fingers stroked her in lazy patterns.

Through half-closed lids, she could see the ewes stupidly watching them.

“My brave little mistress”, he whispered against her lips, “so courageously making a show and lying to her brother’s men.”

“I lied for the god of Lies”, she murmured back, and her heart warmed and expanded at the wolfish smile on his lips and the proud glow in his eyes.

“If it were only for me, I’d devour you right here.”

His lips went to her neck, and she gasped at his nibbling and kissing.

“Tell me, sweet mistress”, he continued, “what do you know about human means of avoiding a pregnancy?”

His words had the effect of the cold water of the waterfalls. Pregnancy? She couldn’t afford being in love – but she could less afford having an illegitimate child. All the more –

Oh.

His children. His monstrous, divine children.

She stiffened in his arms, and he stopped his kisses, straightening a bit to watch her through half-closed eyes.

“What?” was all she weakly managed to croak.

He straightened to his full height, his eyes cast down on the floor, before looking at her, his guarded mask cautiously in place. A pang of hurt stabbed her heart. She hadn’t seen this look for many days. This was the way he looked at her when he lied and withdrew from her. She hadn’t seen it since she confronted him after his first kiss. Why did this mask slip upon his beautiful features right now, right after she gave herself to him?

“I take it that you are familiar with your own myths.”

Oh, this insufferable, condescending tone was back.

She straightened, too, and lifted her chin to muster as much hauteur as she could.

“You know I am.”

“Then you’ve heard of my children.”

She swallowed uneasily and gave a short nod.

“And what do you know about them?”

“There are three of them”, Eyð answered after having cleared her throat. “Fenrir, the Wolf that will swallow up the Sun and the Moon at the beginning of Ragnarok. Jörmungandr, the World-Serpent, laying on the bottom of the Sea. Hel –“ her throat constricted, and he gave her a sharp look, “– the goddess of Death, showing half her decaying skeleton.”

“You are right”, he whispered, nodding. “Since I don’t have my seiðr and thus can’t cast an infertility spell, do you know of any means to avoid a pregnancy?”

“Do you think I could give birth to such a monster?” she asked in horror, realizing as soon as the words crossed her lips that they were very disrespectful towards the god she was addressing. “I’m sorry”, she babbled, “I didn’t mean to say it that way.”

Loki only shook his head indulgently, a thin smile on his lips.

“What I think is that your body is too frail to bear such a child. I don’t intend to kill you.”

Relief washed over her and she couldn’t escape a long sigh. She feared she had vexed him and he would get angry at her. On the contrary, he cared about her health.

“You are right to be afraid”, he offered. “My children are fearsome. Just like their mother.”

“What about you?”

She felt her eyes widening at the realization of what she had just said, once again. The lack of respect implied in her words. He was still so close to her, his body almost touching hers.

He let a short, bitter chortle.

“Darling, you have no idea.”

“Angrboða”, she breathed, afraid that the very name could summon her in the barn. Angrboða, the Bearer of Grief. The giantess whose hair was as red as dried blood. The mother of monsters.

His eyes hardened suddenly.

“Do not speak of her.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“Why?”

A smile she couldn’t decipher – was it cruel? Was it sad? – was the only answer she got for a minute. The god of Lies scrutinized her with keen eyes, and she shifted uncomfortably under his stare.

“You’re growing bold, sweet mistress. Do not presume too much of my infatuation for you.”

What did he mean? Was he ready to give her up if she proved being too insolent? Did he feel no inclination for her? Wasn’t she presumptuous to think that he could nurture feelings for her, a mortal?

“Is it a threat?”

His smile grew definitively cruel and he straightened more, watching her from his height.

“You’ve settled for devotion”, he reminded her, his voice dripping with authority, and the sound of his reprimand made her shiver with a dark thrill. Could she play along? How far would he allow it?

“I worship you in my bedroom”, she breathed, and he barked a genuine laughter, taking a step back, his eyes now glinting with mirth.

“You’re too bold for your own good. I shall chastise you later.”

He leaned upon her, and she lifted her face to his to meet his lips. He extended his arm, grabbed a fork that was hanging to a crook in the wall, and turned his back to her, walking past the animals and to the hay barn at the back of the building, leaving her waiting for more.

Chapter Text

Take a walk through the land of shadows
Take a walk through the peaceful meadows
Don't look so disappointed
It isn't what you hoped for, is it?

Talking Heads, “Memories Can’t Wait”

XXIII.

It was convenient to be a little further away, working the hay with a fork. His cruelty didn’t rejoice Loki, but – he was the one responsible for it. He brought up the topic of contraception, because Eyð’s human, mortal body wouldn’t bear being sowed with his divine seed. It was too fragile for it. Because Odin wouldn’t tolerate any other of his bastards, even less with a lesser being such as a mortal woman. Because he might be the god of Chaos, he had limits. But what he didn’t expect was for her to be so bold as to speak about his children. Nor about her, the giantess who bore them.

Angrboða.

He couldn’t shut his memories, now.

Odin had commanded that Thor and he accompanied him during a diplomatic visit in Útgarð. It was before Skaði claimed that she wanted to wed Thor. She saw him that first time, and decided he would be her husband, whether the god consented or not.

During the welcoming feast, Skaði unabashedly flirted with the god of Thunder, filling his drinking horn with mead, giving him smiles and touching his forearms. Thor wasn’t very much at ease, but he tolerated as much as the mead he absorbed helped him to. Odin kept a watchful eye to ensure Skaði would not take too much liberties with his son. Loki had watched in disgust, drinking mead because there was nothing else to do while Odin was discussing with the Jotnarr. No one would speak to him, and he just sat, his drinking horn in hand, dark and brooding, his disdainful eyes roaming all over the hall, mulling over the lack of refinement of the giants. At some point, as his head felt heavy with drunkenness, a giantess approached him.

She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and gleaming eyes, her cocky smile revealing perfect white, sharp teeth, and she licked her bottom lip before shooing away his neighbour and taking their seat for herself, sitting languidly as her dark red hair cascaded over her shoulders and torso like a waterfall of blood.

He let his eyes stroll on her form, and she let him watch, a smile on her lips. She was both feminine and impressive, the soft curves of her breasts and hips contrasting with the hard muscles of her arms and legs. Her pale blue skin was decorated with ridges of patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering light of the torches.

She watched him back, an appreciative smile on her lips, evidently pleased with what she saw. After a few minutes, she leaned to him and touched his knee with her longer finger, lightly, just teasing, and a soft, warm laugh escaped her lips. Blood rushed to his loins. He had discovered sex a few years ago, and was insatiable. He had had Asgardian women, a Miðgardian slave, a Ljósalfar who belonged to the party paying a diplomatic visit to the Allfather. He never had a giantess yet. How would she feel?

Loki casted a glance to the Allfather who was keenly observing him, and as Odin gave him a sharp, short nod, he stood and took the hand she offered him, and she led him out of the hall, laughing.

She was insatiable.

At first, he enjoyed it, enjoyed her body and her appetite.

But as the night stretched out – and nights were certainly very long in Jotunheimr – he felt utterly used. She was searching something else than a good fuck with a young, virile god. And in the morning, when at last she unbarred the door of her room and let him leave, he couldn’t look at her in shame, and she laughed at him, cackling with cruelty.

She had birthed three children. And when he had tried to speak about it with Odin, the Allfather had been short and evasive.

And so the realization struck Loki that the Allfather knew, and that he had been handed to the giantess for a purpose.

He had been a tool in Odin’s hands, that night.

Loki huffed and viciously stabbed his fork in the hay for good measure, as he couldn’t stab neither Angrboða nor Odin.

At first, when he knew of her name, he thought it was but a figure of speech. That her father had given her a fearsome name, to give her a fearsome temper.

Angrboða. She Who Brings Grief.

He soon found that her name wasn’t just some metaphor. She had brought him grief the way she used him – the way he felt violated. The offspring he sired in her womb brought him grief, and yet, he took care of keeping the three monsters in check.

And for this, he couldn’t sire any child in Eyð’s womb.

His children had been conceived to fulfil a prophecy. That was why Odin tolerated them. The Allfather wouldn’t tolerate a crossbreed with a human. He would kill her. He only thing Loki could do was to protect her by spilling his seed on her skin, as she had given him a terrified, dumbstruck look when he had asked about pregnancy and she thought of his children. Miðgardian women likely didn’t knew of contraception. Or maybe he could doubt of the efficiency of their methods.

He turned to her. She was at the other side of the shed, cautiously palpating the ewes’ bellies to check their gestations. There were another two months before they would give birth to their lambs.

She turned her face to him, and he noticed her worried gaze.

He had been cruel to her, and his heart felt heavy for it.

He didn’t want to scare her with the reality of what she believed was myth, and his words had been harsh. Because he was afraid. Because she was not.

Oh, how he wanted to gather her in his arms and have her beneath him in the pile of hay! Maybe he should indulge into this thought and seek oblivion between her thighs.

He shook his head to himself.

What had he gotten himself into?

He felt trapped. He was growing too fond of her for his sake. Odin would never permit it. Even Frigga wouldn’t be of any help, not if the Allfather strictly forbade it.

She straightened and watched him in silence, and he only stared back. When she walked to him, he almost shook with relief.

“You look so worried”, she said lowly, taking his fingers in her small hand.

“Are you not?”

She nodded faintly.

“I am scared”, she confessed. “I’d like to indulge in your poem’s invitation, but seeing you worried makes me afraid.”

He pressed her fingers in his, reassuringly.

“What are you afraid of?”

“This. Us. It seems impossible. You’re worried, and you’re already so withdrawn.”

He knew the smile that stretched his lips looked bitter.

“I’ll find a way. I always do.”

She lifted her eyes to him, and the furtive glint of hope was soon tarnished with uncertainty and fear.

“Trust me, darling.”

She smiled at him, and he hunched to kiss her, one hand sliding in the hair of her nape to allow him deeper access, which she effortlessly granted him. So perfect, so pliant for him.

“Are you as inventive as our myths say?”

Her whisper was shy, as if she expected to vex him, as if she expected she be rebuffed. He smiled to her, caressing her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“I am the god of Mischief, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

She threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a sort of desperation that left him breathless.

Let us live, and let us love.

She had chosen her path, had chosen him, and he had made a choice, too. Now they had to support each other – but hadn’t they been supporting each other for some time now? – and find a way through the storm they both saw gathering on the horizon. And for this reason, he indulged in the kiss, his lips moving on hers and his tongue rolling with hers, slowly, more affectionate than dominant.

“Speak to me, darling”, he urged her as she broke the kiss again.

“I feel beyond presumptuous for having an affair with you, a god. I am only a mere mortal.”

“I claimed you first”, he breathed. “If anything, I am the one to blame.”

“Who could blame you?” she asked in uncertainty. “You’re the god of Mischief, known for doing whatever he wants.”

He laughed softly, and didn’t answer. How reassuring could it be to say that doing what he wanted often led him to perilous situations? After all, hadn’t he been nearly beheaded by the Dwarves? Hadn’t he had his lips sewn shut? Hadn’t he been held responsible for siring monsters? He gathered her in his arms, pressing her on his chest, tucking his chin onto the crown of her head.

“I told you, darling, I will find a way.”

He kept her for a few minutes, and she didn’t move, seemingly liking being held. He certainly loved holding her, feeling her warm, supple body against his.

“Let’s get back to work”, he reluctantly offered after a while. “Let’s get rid of it and get back into the house. I want to play hnefatafl with you.”

“You want to play? And would you like to bet?” she asked playfully, an impish glint in her eyes.

Oh, the little minx, teasing him. His blood instantly stirred, rushing to his loins, making himself uncomfortable in his breeches. She had no idea what she exposed herself to, had she? He gave her a charming, yet dangerous smile.

“I’d love to”, he purred. “But beware, darling. If you win, I’ll let you ride me. If I win, I’ll make you come until you beg me to stop.”

She blushed furiously, biting her bottom lip, and his grin widened. He could practically see the scandalous images that imposed themselves in her mind.

“You are truly insufferable”, she chided without conviction, a coy smile on her lips, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

The last time they played a game of hneftafl, he leaped on her and kissed her raw. As much as the thought mortified him just after, he now very much wanted to try it again.

“Well, you chose the god of Mischief”, he answered with a soft laugh.

The door of the shed creaked as Ronan opened it. Eyð moved to take a step back but Loki closed his arms to keep her against his chest. By no mean would he, a god, release his grasp for the sake of an old slave, as friendly as he was.

Ronan raised his brows in surprise and cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, mistress. Orla asks for you. The baby needs to be fed.”

“Again?” she whispered. “He is so gluttonous.”

She gently pressed her hands to his chest, a silent demand for him to release her, and he hunched to give a peck on her lips before letting her go. Ronan grasped a tool and started cleaning the floor as she went out.

“So your sojourning in Arnafjørður was fruitful, eh?” the old man croaked.

“I do not wish to discuss this with you”, Loki grunted, going back to his fork in the hay.

“Oh I bet you don’t. But I have eyes. I haven’t seen her this happy since Ásgeir left last spring to go a-Viking. She’s not been laughing and smiling for so long, poor girl.”

Loki didn’t answer, not wanting to indulge in the conversation, and keeping with the little game of gruffness he showed with Ronan.

“But remember, you dark flirt: don’t make her cry. She deserves better.”

This time, Loki, screwed his eyes in annoyance, trying to be patient with the old man. He didn’t need to be lectured like a difficult child. But wasn’t the slave right, in his own way? Didn’t he have the unpleasant habit of ruining everything? What if he couldn’t – what if she couldn’t – break his shackle, and he became restless, and made her responsible for his captivity? What if her brother meddled more than he thought? What if he managed to free himself, and Odin made sure this affair ended in the worst possible manner? So many threats seemed to gather against them.

“I know it”, he finally said, deep and slow. “She deserves happiness.”

***

Orla was waiting for her in the skáli, an impatient Ásgeir in her arms.

“How comes he is already this famished?” Eyð said as she fumbled with the laces of her tunic, the baby rushing to her breast as soon as she sat and took him in her arms.

“He’s growing up. He needs milk”, said Melkorka.

Orla sat on a stool next to her, staring at her.

Oh, Frigga. Eyð knew that look in her eyes. She was going to receive an earful from the old woman.

“What is it? Speak”, she sighed.

“So he’s managed to seduce you?”

Orla’s voice was low, hushed. She didn’t want the sailors to hear her. Eyð calmly held her stare.

“He didn’t take anything that wasn’t offered to him”, she whispered back.

Orla’s eyes widened at the implication of her words.

I gave myself to him. I chose this.

“I see. Is he treating you well?”

She hummed a yes, turning her face to her son. The boy was voraciously gulping her milk with tiny sounds of satisfaction.

“I mean it, Eyð. You should be careful. You know he –“

“I won’t have you grumbling all day long. He’s not always gentle, but he’s been supporting me.”

“He’s cruel.”

“Yes, he can be. And he can be more considerate than you’d think.”

“He’s jealous.”

“Protective.”

“Possessive.”

Eyð sighed through her nose. Hadn’t he been possessive during the feast, putting on this little show for Ólafur? The thought made her smile, though.

“He will make you miserable”, the old woman added.

“Look, I know you don’t trust him –“

“He’s the very god of Lies, Eyð!” Orla tried not to be too loud, and watched over her shoulder, checking whether the chieftain’s sailors were listening to their hushed conversation. “What could you expect from him?”

Eyð gave her a long, hard look. This echoed the thoughts she had nurtured for days. And yet –

“I know you are worried for me. But I can assure you that he didn’t force himself upon me. He’s been very attentive and supportive when we were in Arnafjørður. I couldn’t say that much of my brother, though.”

Orla frowned and tilted her head.

“What do you mean?”

“He pressed me into marrying again. Soon.”

The old slave nodded.

“Of course he would. Your marriage serves his interests.”

“I refuse to be traded like cattle.”

“Hence a lover?” asked Orla. “Just to annoy your brother?”

Eyð had a soft laugh.

“I can’t say I was not amused by the look on his face. But it’s not a fling. It’s – something that’s been growing – I have learned to know him, and –“

“Good gods!” exclaimed Orla, and Eyð gave a quick look to the sailors, who were now watching them both. The woman blinked, and leaned towards her, careful not to be too loud. “Could you be in love with him?”

“No, no, of course not!”

She couldn’t afford it, could she? She knew it all too well. He was immortal. He was a god, and belonged to another realm. She couldn’t be as assumptive as thinking she could have this kind of relationship with him. Worse, she had agreed to remarry. Tórmoður already thought of a suitor. Come spring, he would undoubtedly pay her call along with Eyvind, and start the negociations for their betrothal and wedding. The very thought made her stomach churn. And this was one of the reasons she couldn’t grow feelings for Loki. She knew she wouldn’t bear to live with Eyvind if she fell in love with another.

“I’ve learnt to appreciate him, at most”, she said. She was rather convincing in her tone. Orla gave a pout and a nod.

“Right. But be careful all the same.”

Eyð nodded, too. She appreciated him. That was all. She almost – almost – managed to convince herself.

Chapter Text

Tell me now of the very soul that look alike, look alike
Do you know the stranglehold covering their eyes?
If I call on every soul in the land, on the moon
Tell me if I'll ever know a blessing in disguise

The curse ruled from the underground, down by the shore
And their hope grew with a hunger to live unlike before

Agnes Obel – “The Curse”

XXIV.

She won.

They had played a game of hnefatafl at night, after the evening meal, and her brother’s sailors had gathered around them to observe the game.

“Your þræll plays well”, one of them had observed.

“You won’t debase yourself by speaking to him”, Eyð had answered abruptly. “Hveðrung is a prince, and not my þræll. You must have been mistaken by that collar I can’t manage to remove.”

She had been careful to call him that name, and Loki had chortled darkly.

“Maybe I will debase myself by speaking to them.”

His tone had playful, mischievous, and she had watched his grin widen as the men showed their rising anger.

“Now, now, don’t be disrespectful”, she had chided lightly. She didn’t want them to cause any trouble in her house.

Their game went on, and she had to be very careful and to focus. He had threatened her, after all, hadn’t he? She would have to win this game.

He hadn’t tried to cheat. But he spoke, and spoke, in attempt to distract her, and at some time she kicked him, which made him laugh.

Finally, she had managed to make her king retreat in her fortress. She had tried to capture his king at first, but he played better than her and she had to change her strategy.

“I win!” she exclaimed in triumph.

And he had watched her in silence, a predatory look on his face, making her squirm uncomfortably in her chair. Everyone could decipher his intentions.

“Off to bed, now”, he had purred.

And off to bed they went.

Now, he was laying naked, offering himself to her as she stared at him, taking in his beauty. His lithe form, his hard, strong muscles under perfect, fair skin. The way he had tucked his arms under his nape made his shoulders even broader, and his ribs showed, his belly swelling up and down with each inhale and exhale. The mere sight of him ignited a fire in her lower belly and made her blood race in her veins.

“Take your shirt off” he rasped.

Oh, his voice. The dark commanding tone that spoke of sinful promises made her nipples harden even more.

She shuddered – not because of the cold – and complied, shivering more under his smirk. She entered the bed, not lying next to him, but crawling to straddle him, to feel his skin under hers, and bent to kiss him. He withdrew his hands from under his head and caressed her – oh, how she loved this! The feeling of his calloused fingers on her skin, fondling and grazing and tickling, exploring all of her as if to remember her body, made her sigh against his lips.

She loved kissing him. His lips were warm and firm and he always knew how to make her feel dizzy.

He sat and his hands went to her hair, undoing her braid, spreading her long locks over her back, combing them with his fingers and nuzzling his face into them to inhale her scent, releasing a soft grunt as he exhaled and laid back.

The sound made her even wetter than she already was.

“Loki, I want to –“

His hands on her hips pressed her against his cock, the folds of her sex sliding over his length, and a jolt of pleasure coursed through her, covering her skin in goose bumps. Yes. Yes, this was what she wanted. She wanted to feel him, to take and give pleasure. He tilted her hips only to move them back again, and she repeated the movement, breathing harder. He gazed at her with intensity, a wild glint in his eyes, and she felt so intimidated that she closed her eyes. Immediately one of his hands slid to her nape and wrapped the back of her head, and she placed her hands on his chest for support.

“Look at me”, he grunted, and she complied, blushing more, her skin aflame under his gaze and smirk.

She tentatively raised on her knees, reaching between her legs to grab his cock and position it at her opening.

“No, darling”, he growled, “you’re not ready yet.”

Grabbing her hips, he sat her back against him, his cock parting her folds, the tip resting against the bundle of nerves at the front of her sex, and he ground her hips against him, making her slide over his length. She felt so exposed under his stare, and yet it sent a dark thrill down her spine and straight to her core. With every movement, pleasure grew stronger, but it was nothing like her memory of having him inside her. The want increased. The need, too.

“Loki, I –“

“Let me watch you. You’re so beautiful.”

His hands went from her hips to her breasts, fondling them, rolling the nipples between deft long fingers, and she gasped loudly. He didn’t hold her down anymore, did he? She reached down and sat onto his length, meeting her needs, squeezing her eyes at the feeling of him, her insides already fluttering with pleasure.

“Eyð – “, he gasped, too, and his furrowed brows and gritted teeth were like a signal for her to move. She started with lifting herself on her knees and lowering back, but the friction wasn’t enough, and she soon rode him like a galloping horse, urgently, fully seating him inside her and moving forward and reverse. Each tilt of her lower back made her gasp louder and louder as she felt him deliciously rubbing her insides. He soon placed his hands on her hips, meeting thrust for thrust, and her breath quickened more.

Just a little more, just a little –

A moan from him was all she needed. Gasping and shivering, she was overflown by a wave of pleasure surging from within her, making her grind herself down onto him, prolonging the ecstasy until it ebbed. She slowed her movements, her chest heaving and her legs as weak as those of a new born lamb. Loki was panting beneath her, his eyes glinting and feral in his pale face.

“What did I say, darling?”

“I won”, she whispered, leaning in to rest her head against his collarbone.

“I said not yet”.

His dark murmur made another shiver course over her skin. Sitting back, she met his dangerous, hungry stare.

Oh. She was dealing with the god of Chaos.

Wrapping his strong arms around her, he flipped her under him like she weighed nothing, and brought them to her chest, tucking his hands under her knees to restrain her moves.

“You didn’t listen to me”, he growled.

“Because I won.”

Keeping her in place with his forearm across her hamstrings, he bent and kissed her there, making her jerk.

“What are you –“

His dark chuckle against her folds, his wet tongue on her clit made her gasp again. Oh, this was so new. She had never been kissed like this and – it felt so –

He slipped two fingers inside her, and she moaned. She was already very sensitive, and with every movement of his tongue and fingers she felt pleasure run through her veins.

“A pity you can’t see how beautiful you are.”

The pad of his thumb replaced his tongue as his fingers slipped faster inside her. Oh. If he started speaking to her like this, like he did last night, she wouldn’t be able to resist the pleasure he wanted to give her. And he knew it.

“Who owns you now, mistress? Look at you, you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

His deep, dark purr made her clench around his fingers.

“Loki, ah –“

“Tell me.”

She couldn’t answer, overwhelmed by another wave of pleasure. As soon as she felt it surge, he withdrew his hand and forcefully thrust his cock into her, rutting inside her.

“Did my priestess think she could win over her god?”

“I won”, she whined pathetically.

“And now, yield!” he grunted with a particular hard thrust that made her writhe and cry under him as he prolonged her ecstasy until he slipped out and took himself in hand, stroking hard before spilling his seed on her belly with a loud groan.

Lying next to her, he rolled onto his back and picked her kerchief to wipe her clean.

“You cheated”, she breathed. “You said you’d let me ride you.”

“You cheated”, he echoed, wrapping his arms around her and pulling the covers to her chin.

***

It was lighter every day. At first, one couldn’t almost notice that light lasted a little longer, but soon it was obvious that it did, that the solstice had kept its promises, and that they were slowly, but surely, going towards spring and summer.

And Eyð, like a plant deprived of light, was slowly starting to bloom again. She smiled, and laughed, and was carefree, and Loki couldn’t help but smile at seeing her alive again. She was like a little bird, very animated, always here and there, chirping and nice and beautiful.

Sometimes, she withdrew to herself, though, and usually stood apart outside, mournfully looking at the sea. And Loki let her grieve alone, for she always came back to him. Her sorrow was lighter, but it hadn’t totally disappeared, and nor had her guilt for replacing her late husband with a lover. She needed these moments with herself, and the household was careful to let her on her own when she walked away. But she always smiled at him, and gave herself so freely and so entirely that Loki let her finish her mourning on her own, because she managed to.

And days passed, becoming weeks.

They enjoyed walking together when the weather allowed it, the old dog following them. She would need a puppy to be trained with the sheep by this one, and as he talked about it to her, she laughed happily.

“I could never guess you would be so attentive about the dog”, she said with a bright smile.

He gave her a disdainful shrug that made her laugh harder, and he kissed her hard to punish her of making fun of her god.

She seldom dared asking him about his mother and brother. She cautiously never brought the conversation on Odin or Angrboða, careful not to anger him, and it appeased him.

If he sometimes thought that living here was boring, he was also very conscious that it was but a blink in his life, and he might as well enjoy joyful moments with her. Some days, it was a little warmer, and the snow melted under the rain, changing the ground around the farm in large muddy puddles. Some other days, it was cold again, and within a few hours the mountains were once more covered with snow, their white coat contrasting sharply with the black cliffs. And then, there were sunny spells, so bright and sudden they seemed to be like magic over the sea, sunrays shining through the clouds and illuminating the sea with large patches of light. These were her favourite moments. Whenever they were outside the house, if the clouds opened above her and she felt sunbeams on her, she would stop and lift her face to the sky and bask in the sun. And he never saw anything prettier than that, his little mistress glowing with happiness in the sun.

He borrowed her dagger and trained. At first, he started with throwing it at a beam of the lean-to at the back of the byre. The blade was sharp and the knife was well balanced, in spite of the complicated gilded interlacing decorating the handle. It was a nice weapon, offered to Ásgeir by the jarl as a token of gratitude. Kórmakur saw him, and shyly asked if he could teach him. And he did. The boy was keen and curious, both qualities Loki appreciated. Orla protested, but Loki replied that slaves who couldn’t fight were slaughtered like cattle. The boy was a quick learner, and soon Loki started to spar with him, teaching him the rudiments of hand-to-hand combat. Eyð agreed to it, as long as his work was done. And so the boy hurried with his tasks in the morning, and trained with Loki in the last hours of daylight.

The month of Þorri ended, and during the month of Góa, the cow that Tórmoður had given Eyð at the time she learned of her husband’s death calved. The household rejoiced, for it meant that spring was soon to come and that they would have more food after the harsh days of winter. The calf was strong and stimulated the cow’s milk very well. Eyð was satisfied for it was a female, and it would help her increase her stock in a few years.

She soon began to milk the cow, pick the cream floating on it, churn butter and make skyr with the skimmed milk. It was a lot of work, but she forbid him to help, saying she appreciated it because she liked the warm scent filling the dairy and because they could eat fresh butter. The true reason she confessed a few days later: the dairy work was traditionally exclusively kept for women, and the cruellest jokes and insults about a man’s virility had always to do with implying the targeted man taking care of the dairy. And so Loki let her do as she wanted and as it suited her customs. The last remains of the butter in reserve had turned rancid, and he merely ate it by now because of his hunger, for it was distasteful. He wanted to eat fresh butter, whether she needed help or not.

One morning, she sat to churn butter beside the open door of the dairy to benefit of the light and be sheltered from the wind, and Loki could see her profile as he threw daggers in a straw puppet he had made.

She was wearing her practical clothes, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, and had tied a kerchief over her hair to keep some unruly locks in place. Placing the butter churn between her feet, she started turning the stick passing through the wooden lid to beat the cream that filled the recipient. Her cheeks quickly became flush with the effort, and a few minutes later he could hear her take a heavy breath as she jerked her arm to ease her sore muscles. From time to time, she uncovered the churn to check the content. At some point, Loki could distinctively hear a liquid slosh in the churn, and a relieved sigh from Eyð. Her effortful beating was almost done, and the buttermilk was separating from the fat. She gave a few more turns, then opened the lid, carefully scraped the butter on the stick and picked a large wooden bowl to pour the buttermilk in it. She had yet to rinse the fresh butter with clear water, but she came out with two cups of buttermilk, and handed him one.

Oh, her glinting eyes and flushed cheeks.

He picked the cup and leaned to kiss her, and she pressed herself against him with a careless laughter. How could he tired of this? Feeling her supple, warm body against his, meeting her soft lips with his own, swallowing her breath and laughter? It filled him with more joy than he had ever felt. And he almost wished – almost – that she never found a way to open his shackle, that she kept him with her forever.

Footsteps – running footsteps – made her draw back, her face redder than before their kiss. His public demonstrations of affection always made her uneasy, and he liked to tease her with that.

Kórmakur turned the corner of the byre, breathing hard and red faced, and Eyð turned away, pretending to be drinking her buttermilk.

“A boat!” the boy panted.

She turned to him in alarm, her lips pressed, her eyes hard and wary.

“Keep the dagger close to hand”, she whispered. And then, addressing the boy, “go serve yourself a cup of buttermilk, and stay put in the byre.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Loki took a few steps to have a look at the cove. A boat had indeed turned past the cliffs and was sailing towards the shore. He recognized the sail.

“Your brother”, he announced sternly, and his heart squeezed at the strangled noise she made. He could hear her sudden anguish in it. Each visit from Tórmoður was painful for her. The man evidently behaved like she was his property and he could do what he wanted with her.

“I need to change my clothes.”

“Why? You’ve been working, there is no shame in wearing practical clothes.”

She gave his a fearful look, her cheeks now pallid, and shook her head.

“He won’t like me wearing breeches like a man.”

He huffed impatiently.

 “What if he comes to take me away once more? What if he wants to take my baby?”

Her chest was heaving, and he gathered her in his arms, kissing her forehead to reassure her.

 “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll stay close to you.”

He walked her to the house, and he slipped in his best shirt – the one she had woven and sewn for him – carefully bringing the fabric of the neck above his collar. She would need his support, and he well knew that fine clothes were part of the kind of social interactions they were about to face. She would have to negotiate a matter with her brother, and the man wouldn’t be respectful at all if they were dressed like common peasants.

She went out of her room within a few minutes, wearing a yellow dress with a fine blue apron on it, her chest adorned with necklaces dangling between the silver brooches fixing the apron on her shoulders. Her hair had been hastily braided and rolled on her nape.

“You’re beautiful”, he said, and she gave him a shy smile before exiting to wait at the door for her visitors.

The boat was already beaching on the black sand, and four men jumped out of it. As they came up to the farm, two men wearing red cloaks walking in the front and the other two following, Tórmoður’s broad frame was easily identifiable. Next to him walked a tall, lean man. Loki had already seen him. That man, coming here so soon. Jealousy ignited in his stomach and quickly ran in his veins, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Oh, how he now wanted to be cruel to her, for she had been lying to him for so long. He exhaled slowly in attempt to calm down his temper. In vain.

“My, my”, he drawled in a feigned indifferent tone, “is it not the handsome and dull Eyvind who’s walking along with your brother? What could he be doing here, I wonder?”

Chapter Text

Then into your life, there comes a darkness
And a spacecraft blocking out the sky
And there's nowhere to hide
You run to the back and you cover your ears
But it's the loudest sound you've ever heard
Into your darkest hour

Radiohead, “Decks Dark”

XXV.

Eyð instantly felt all colour drain from her face. Her stomach constricted violently and she felt bile rise in her throat.

Eyvind was here.

She immediately knew what it meant.

Tórmoður intended to start the negotiations of a betrothal. A betrothal she tacitly agreed to.

And worst, Loki sounded angry. No. Furious.

“Listen, Loki, there is something I need to say –“

“Don’t bother, darling”, he cut her, his icy voice dripping with conceit. “Did you forget I’m the god of Lies?”

She lowered her head in shame and guilt, tears already welling in her eyes. How foolish she had been! How stupid from her to think she could buy some time with this vain promise! Did she think she could hide anything from him? A hard shiver shook her when he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Now don’t cry, Eyð. We’ll discuss this later.”

His voice wasn’t so hard anymore, but she didn’t dare lifting her eyes to him. He squeezed his fingers.

“I’m sorry, Loki, I’m so sorry. He trapped me. I had to give him something or he would have kept us there, just like hostages.”

Her trembling voice betrayed her dread and guilt. She had tried to protect them both and actually had ruined everything. His other hand grasped her other shoulder.

“Look at me, darling.”

This time, the endearment was meant. She could only hear encouragement in his voice and lifted her wet eyes to his. His stare wasn’t full of cold disdain like before, but of determination.

“This is not the time to think about it. I’ll support you, and even though I’m angry, I’m mostly mad at your brother.”

He let go of her and straightened to his full height, his chin high, haughty and aloof, already forcing his imposing bearing.

“Now brace yourself and put on a brave face, darling. You are stronger than you know.”

She swallowed hard.

He was right. She had to appear strong even if she felt a mess inside. She had already done it before, hadn’t she? Blinking her tears away, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, her jaw set and eyes hard.

“Very well”, he praised lowly as the visitors approached. “I’m proud of you.”

She nodded faintly, her gaze on Eyvind. She refused to look at her brother as long as she could avoid it. The man had probably been trapped in this, just like her. Maybe, with a little luck, he didn’t want her more than she didn’t want him, and Tórmoður’s project would easily be deterred.

Eyvind watched her with cool, guarded eyes, his thin lips closed. His pale cheeks bore red patches in the cold wind. He was wearing a dark grey caftan under his red cloak, and she couldn’t deny that the colour suited him and complemented his pale blue eyes. The man had a natural presence that Loki obviously disliked, for he snorted in disdain. She didn’t have time to worry too much about this, though, for Tórmoður’s voice boomed joyfully.

“Good day to you, dearest sister!”

“Good day to you, Tórmoður. And to you, Eyvind.”

The man politely answered her greetings, and she invited them inside the house. They took seats as Orla served them a light meal of flat bread and fresh butter. The very butter she had churned this morning, and Melkorka had thoroughly rinsed while she changed clothes to meet her visitors.

All this work to benefit my brother, just as he is about to serve me up to a stranger, she thought bitterly.

She took her high seat, sitting straight in it, and watched with confusion as Loki went standing at her side, like her personal guard, or – like her consort. It was embarrassing, and the looks exchanged by Tórmoður and Eyvind didn’t help her to relax. Propriety required that she initiated small talk before they started to speak about the purpose of their visit. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. There was no need squeaking like a terrified mouse, although she felt like one.

“How was your sailing?” she asked. “The wind is strong, and it often lifts a long swell in this time of year.”

“It went quite well. Dagga sends her greetings”, answered her brother. “The kids miss you.”

She smiled politely.

“And where is my nephew?” he continued. “He must have grown up since the Jólablót.”

“He’s taking his morning nap. You’ll see him later.”

Her eyes fell on Eyvind, who was silently observing the skáli, and she assumed he was gauging her capacities to handle the slaves and manage the farm. To evaluate her talents as lady of the house. To decide whether or not it would benefit him to marry her, and bile rose in her throat at the very thought of sitting next to him, or worse, laying on her back and letting him –

At least, the man had manners and ate without making a mess. This had to be a consolation.

“The butter is excellent”, he said with a smile. His voice was soft, polite, controlled. She couldn’t figure anything about him.

“It is fresh, I churned it just before your arrival”, she answered.

“Well, congratulations. The cream must be very fat, and it is very well rinsed. There is no trace of sourness in it.”

She forced a smile on her lips and nodded in acknowledgement. She gave a slide glance as she felt Loki slightly getting closer to her seat, jealously protecting her. And her eyes fell back on Eyvind, who was watching Loki, his pale eyes as cold as ice.

“And now, dear sister”, said Tórmoður, “I take it you remember our last conversation when you visited us for the Jólablót.”

Eyð stiffened and blanched, finding herself unable to answer her brother, a heavy load constricting her throat and making her choke.

No, no, no.

There was no more time for informal chatter, it seemed. Why was he rushing things? Why was he –

She choked. She choked and her brain went blank.

Loki leaned upon her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Breathe”, he whispered in her ear.

And she obeyed, letting a shaking exhale, turning her face to him, meeting his green gaze, burning with something dark. He frowned, however, and his eyes softened and warmed a bit. She inhaled with effort, and he stroke her flesh through the fabric of her dress in approval. She felt reassured by his presence. I’m here, I’m here for you, it meant.

“I do”, she croaked.

She felt uneasy, remembering her brother’s words and heavy insinuations. Remembering what she had said. I want to choose my husband.

“And yet, you are persistent with this relationship that brings ill reputation upon our family. Against my will and advice.”

She swallowed thickly and had to clear her throat.

“You said you allowed it. You called it leisure.”

He rolled his eyes in annoyance, impatiently lifting his face to the ceiling.

Loki’s hand moved to her nape, his thumb drawing soothing circles at the root of her hair.

Eyvind’s cold eyes were on him, on her. On her neck. On his hand. His hand petting her nape, his thumb massaging the tense muscles at the base of her head. Helping her relax all the while affirming his dominance and property. The man’s lips were tightly pressed together. There was beauty in these regular features, fair skin and pale blue eyes. But the slight frown between his brow and the hard clench of his jaw made him look severe.

“Her lover looks resentful”, he said lowly, slightly turning his head to Tórmoður.

Loki let a scornful snort, and she could imagine very clearly his beautiful face wearing the expression of cold contempt she had already seen at her expense. Although she could feel how tensed his strong body was, he caressed the soft skin of Eyð’s neck as she stiffened under his fingers, just as if she were a leery horse and her tried to soothe her. She hated as much as him the way Eyvind talked about them in the third person, just as if they weren’t in front of him, and she let her temper speak before she could think better.

“You can address me, or my lover, as you call him”, she said icily. “There is no use pretending we can’t hear you.”

Eyvind had a bitter smile that fuelled her anger.

“Well, my intentions were not to vex you”, he apologized. “Clearly you gave him an important status in your house, and he now looks at our visit with contempt.”

“I know you were part of the raid when Hveðrungr was taken. But you must know that he is not treated like a slave here. His suggestions and help have been greatly appreciated, and he now lives here as – “ She paused, hesitant. Could she be bold enough to say it? Yes, she decided with a hard swallow “– my partner.”

Tórmoður rose in anger.

“You gave me your word!”

She took a deep inhale, willing her voice to be firm.

“I said that I understood that you wanted me to remarry. I said that I wanted to have a choice. But still, you’re the one imposing a suitor. For the second time.”

“Stop challenging me, woman!”

“I didn’t propose any name! I didn’t propose his name!” she exclaimed, her finger pointing at the man her brother had chosen for her.

Eyvind rose, too, and Loki tensed more at her side, his loathing and anger radiating in waves. This was going bad, very bad. She already fathomed them all drawing weapons and jumping at each others’ throats.

“Your sister is no property of yours”, Loki growled darkly. “Don’t speak to her so rudely.”

She could hear how much he restrained himself, how much he struggled not to lunge on her brother and hit him – or worse.

Tórmoður sneered in derision – oh no, he shouldn’t have – and she just had time to catch Loki’s wrist before he did something foolish. Her brother’s foul smile widened to a wicked grin.

“Isn’t that cute? Your watchdog is in love. Do you love him too, sister?”

She desperately clutched at Loki’s wrist, and as he turned his face to hers with a ragged breath, his eyes feral, pupils expanded with the urge to fight, she shook her head in a silent plea.

“It’s obvious enough. Had I known that your sister had such ideas about this betrothal, I wouldn’t even have bothered to travel.”

Eyð swallowed heavily at Eyvind’s cold tone. There was displeasure in it, but also discomfort. Who would he blame for being fooled, her brother or her? The answer was evident. She was a woman, strong-headed and stubborn enough to disobey the head of her family. She would be the one to be held responsible for this disaster.

“Come, Eyvind. Evidently you must understand that you are caught against your will in a quarrel between my brother and me.”

Her tone was cold and formal. She clutched to language and politeness to gather her thoughts and not let her emotions win over her.

“Please, sit”, she said, letting go of Loki’s writs, her hand extended in a gesture of invitation, as she took her seat again. Loki’s fingers immediately came back on her nape, tensed and hard, and she straightened her neck under his grip. He seemed to notice, for he relaxed and stroked her skin with his thumb.

“Yet you seem quite hostile –“ started Eyvind, his eyes heavy with humiliated displeasure.

“To my brother’s project, yes, indeed. Rest assured I don’t feel any hatred for you.”

Loki’s fingers contracted once more on her nape, as a warning. She was polite to his rival, and he radiated jealousy.

“Tórmoður”, Eyvind said in a calm, controlled voice, “I can’t fathom your sister agreeing to any of this as you told me. She will hate me, and I don’t want to be killed in my own house.”

“I won’t kill you”, she replied sharply, “since I won’t come to your farm. Ever.”

Loki’s hand relaxed and resumed his petting. It was like a reward. My good little mistress, she could practically hear him whisper in her ear. It made her press her thighs together. It was more than she could handle. Too much. She blinked a few times to clear her view. Focus, Eyð. You have to get through this. She had to grasp something for balance and took Loki’s hand, settling it on her shoulder, intertwining her fingers with his to keep them in place. Her brother glared all the more at her.

 “Don’t be so sure, sister. In a few weeks, we’ll leave to raid. As for you, watchdog, you’ll be coming with us, so we can sell you off to your family.”

Loki’s fingers clenched between hers at the insult. Tórmoður’s voice was soft and sweet. Smarmy. He was comfortably sprawled in his chair – her chair – and watched Loki and her with malevolent eyes that belied his tone.

“And so, dearest sister, you will have plenty of time to think about it alone, and then we’ll deal with all this at the end of summer, in the season of weddings.”

All that she had been silently fearing for weeks, all the thoughts she had foolishly been trying to keep at bay were surging forcefully and – and – suddenly very real. Without thinking, she rose, her fists clenched at her sides.

“No!”

“Really? And why?”

“He stays here.”

“Oh does he, now? I would never have thought you’d be so eager to be fucked by the very man who laughed so hard when Ásgeir drowned.”

The words were so hard they didn’t make their way to her brain. She didn’t understand. What did he say?

He laughed.

Loki laughed when Rán, the Ninth wave, the Bloody one, took Ásgeir.

“What?”

“You heard me. He exulted when your husband was swept overboard.”

This time, it was too much. His words hit her like a punch in her guts, drawing out all air from her lungs, making her stumble. No. No! It could not be true. She turned to Loki, needing to hear it from him. That it wasn’t true. That Tórmoður was only aiming to hurt her.

The god kept silent, looking at her, his eyes heavy with – what? He only extended his arm, reaching for her, and she jerked her hand away.

“Don’t touch me”, she cried, and once she exhaled to shout, it seemed to her that her lungs wouldn’t fill with air anymore, that she choked so much she was going to die. She rushed towards the door, desperately in need of fresh air, unable of thinking straight, blind with panic.

A cold gush of wind met her as soon as she stepped outside, and she couldn’t decide whether it felt welcomed or atrocious. She put her hand on the wall, bracing herself on one arm for support, tugging at the neck of her dress with her other hand, struggling to breathe. Loki joined her almost immediately, and she yelled when he put his hand on her shoulder, wailing offending words and incoherent things to him until he took a step back.

Oh, the look on his face. The look of remorse and rejection and hurt. A dark sense of satisfaction crept inside her at seeing his expression. He earned it, didn’t he? Damn god of Lies, always keeping his truths to himself. But she also knew, deep inside, that his look was her punishment. Not that he meant to punish her. No, it was her punishment, meant by fate, by the Norns, because of her indecent boldness. Who was she to think she could enjoy this life so much? That she could happily live with him at her side? That she could grow so brazen as to – and the realization hit her like a sharp slap – to love him?

Her knees gave up and she collapsed on herself, and once more Loki rushed for her, wrapping his arms around her, and she rejected him, pushing him so hard she might as well have hit him.

“Don’t touch me!”

He drew back his hands, and she whined, mourning his touch already.

“Eyð – I – please, Eyð – I didn’t know you back at that time.  I just can’t watch you like this and –“

Orla came, limping slightly, and kneeled by her, gathering her in her arms, cradling her, and she allowed the touch, because she trusted the woman, because she was trustworthy, unlike him, unlike the god of Lies -

“Poor girl”, she said in a low, soothing voice, “don’t let him win, don’t let him see how much he makes you suffer.”

Tórmoður and Eyvind exited just a moments later. Eyð didn’t see them, busy as she was trying to recover her breath in Orla’s steady, comforting, motherly huddle, only noticing it when her brother addressed her with dripping condescension.

“Now that you know, you can choose what you see fit, Eyð. We will see each other again after the next full moon.”

Eyvind muttered a few apologies and salutations, and as she casted a glance at him, she could see he looked utterly mortified.

“You’ve been very mean, master”, croaked Orla, but Tórmoður only gave a shrugbefore turning away and walking back to his boat.

***

Loki had been stabbed before. It never felt as painful as this.

The way she looked at him, with disbelief, then with so much pain, then with repulsion, it felt like a white-hot blade slicing through his lungs and splitting him in two.

She didn’t want him. She pushed him away. Yelled at him. With more anger and violence than she ever demonstrated in the early days of his forced sojourning here, when he played so well with her mourning and took so much pleasure in torturing her, because it distracted him from his own anger at being captive and weakened. She didn’t want him to touch her. That she made very clear.

The way he felt when they were waiting to welcome their unwelcomed visitors – jealous, and loathing, and burning with smouldering anger because she apparently didn’t trust him enough to tell him about what her brother had made her promise to let them sail back here, in this shelter that now turned into a trap – the way he felt then didn’t mean anything anymore. He just felt empty now. Hollow. Because if she drew her affection from him, there was nothing to be felt anymore.

And as he watched Orla help her get to her feet and walk inside the house with her, he stayed put, not knowing what to do, not knowing where to go.

He couldn’t possibly follow, could he? This would only encourage more spiteful yelling from her, and this was more than he could endure right now.

So he walked away. Better anywhere than here, where everything might remind him of what they did together.

The thing was, every single place of this island rose a memory of her.

The beach, where she used to sit in silence and watch the seal-bull. On this same beach, he fed her with fresh bread and butter, he killed the seal and swooped her in his arms to walk back to the farm.

The cliff where she dozed, exhausted as she was by her grief and by Ólafur’s proposal, where she felt the magic in his collar.

The meadows they explored through the past weeks, where he sat in the damp grass and she straddled him and – don’t think of it – he watched her pretty face flushed with pleasure – don’t, Loki, don’t – as they fucked.

He shuddered hard, startled by a painful whine. Only to shamefully realize he had been the one whining, for he was alone, all alone, standing in the green grass, his feet damp and cold, noticing at last that rain was pouring over him and his clothes were soaked through and clung to his skin.

Was he cold?

Yes, maybe.

But wasn’t it more likely from the hole in his chest, than from the rain?

He had always thought feelings were treacherous, and had carefully, almost methodically avoided to give into something like this. And yet, he had allowed himself to be touched, to feel. Wasn’t it right that he paid the price for his foolishness? He was beyond ridiculous. Loki, god of Lies, of Strife, of Chaos, lamenting over himself because of a woman. Because of a mortal. He was being grotesque. If Thor ever knew of it, he would never hear the end of it.

The rain was pouring harder, whipping him with the force of the strong gale howling around him. The very weather was yelling at him, too.

How was she?

The image of his precious Eyð, her gaze full of pain and disgust, lingered before his eyes. Even if he scrubbed them, he couldn’t get rid of it. His ears still rang with her cries and words.

Liar. Knave. Scoundrel. Master in deception. Low and unprincipled.

She didn’t seem to have enough words to spit in wrath and disgust. And she was right. All those words applied to him. He had cheated, tricked her, and abused of her patience and generosity. More than one time. And yet, it was for something he did before he even met her that she got mad at him.

Because his glee at her husband’s death brought her guilt with full force. The very guilt he had coaxed her to bury deep inside when she was with him.

He deserved her anger. He deserved to be alone.

Chapter Text

You're part of the dawn where the light comes from the dark
You're a part of the morning and everything matters
And we are, an atom and a star
You're a part of the movement and everything matters

Aurora, “Everything matters”

XXVI.

A light touch on his face.

Light fingers.

He frowned, refusing to wake up. He had just dozed off, and wanted to rest.

No, not rest. He wanted to forget, and only sleep could provide a few moments of pure oblivion.

Something light brushed his hand, like a feather. Hair? He reluctantly cracked an eye open.

She was here. Eyð was here, kneeling at his side and bending over him, her untied hair dangling and tingling his skin.

She came for him, unworthy as he was.

“Why are you sleeping here?” she whispered, her voice watery.

He swallowed hard, sitting, pushing on his hands to draw back and lean against the planked wall separating the byre from the skáli. He had slept there, with the animals, where he belonged. Because he didn’t deserve to sleep anywhere around her. Because she wouldn’t have suffered any of this if he hadn’t stubbornly reclaimed to be treated as a god, to be obeyed, to be worshipped.

And that she did. Very well, and very enthusiastically.

The pain hadn’t disappeared during night-time.

“Thought you wouldn’t want to see me. But I had to find a shelter.”

“I’ve been waiting for you last night.”

His heart jolted at her words. Liar, he thought. He had taught her to lie. And now, she excelled at it.

“Surely you didn’t.”

Don’t touch me, she had yelled, her eyes aflame with furious repulsion.

She watched him with worried eyes. She looked terrible, with her messy hair and dark circles, her lips pale and dry. How long had she been crying last night?

“You look –“ she interrupted, swallowing “ – bad.”

His eyes dropped to the ground. It was no wonder. He had been wandering on the moor, in the meadows, until the wind was too strong and his face was violently slapped by the rain. His hair and clothes were still damp. And here, in the byre, he couldn’t sleep, as memories of her drove him mad.

Memories of how here, he had threatened to strangle her, his fingers wrapped around her delicate throat – although he should have kissed her already, that very night. Memories of the times she sneaked out of the house to have nightly conversations with him. Of the times she tried to open his collar. Of the night she offered him the fine shirt in exchange of his protection. Self-loathing had rolled over him all night long for all his cruelty, for all the time he had wasted with being awful to her.

“Orla explained to me”, she whispered. “I never thought of it like this.”

He blinked his memories away and turned an unsure gaze to her. She was still there, sitting on her heels in the straw, her head bent.

“Why you could have been hating Ásgeir.”

He gulped.

“She explained that I actually never saw him fight, and that you only ever saw him as a warrior. That he was my loving husband, and your ruthless captor.”

He nodded faintly.

“She also repeated what Eyvind said. That, had he been treated like Ásgeir treated you, he would have laughed, too.”

Her voice broke, and she blinked several times, trying to master her feelings, and he spoke before her tears spilled, his voice low and unsure, so unlike him.

“I – I didn’t know you, back at that time – how could I – I’m sorry, Eyð. I’m sorry you learned it that way, that your brother told you and I didn’t.”

She nodded, her lips tightly pressed and brows furrowed, and took a slow, deep inhale.

“I’m sorry for what he did to you”, she finally managed to breath.

His throat constricted, too. After all he had done to her, after all the cruel words he had told, she still was soft and sweet and good to him.

“Don’t be. Your world is a violent one, and your people are just a little more violent. I’m sorry that I never spoke about the day he captured me. You were so sad, and I had already been terribly cruel with you.”

There was something else, something he wasn’t ready to tell her. I was – I’m still – so ashamed of my weakness. Of having been taken by a mortal.

“I tried so hard, you know. I wanted it so much. I wanted this place to be a shelter, to hide us from the rest of the world.”

Her head fell in defeat, and she looked so miserable his hands urged to reach for her, and he fought the want with all his strength. She made very clear, yesterday, that she didn’t want him to touch her.

“And in the end, it just backfired. I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t.”

He swallowed hard.

“This man, Eyvind, he – he seems to be decent, at least. Not like Ólafur.”

She shot him an incredulous look.

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe under different circumstances –“

She crawled to him, still on her knees, her gaze a little firmer. He thought she would extend her hand to him, but she didn’t, and the hole in his chest burned with the distance between them.

“There are no other circumstances. Don’t you remember? There is no room for another.” A short silence, and, “I agreed to this.”

And then, uncertainty flickered in her eyes, and her lips quivered.

“Or maybe you wish – maybe you regret –“

Unable to fight himself anymore, Loki moved swiftly and wrapped her in his arms, warmth and comfort and relief engulfing him at once when she didn’t push him back but rested her hands in his back instead.

“I don’t regret anything, darling. How could I ever?”

His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. His face buried in her hair, he took a slow, deep inhale to breathe in her scent. She smelled like hay and wool and rain, and his heart swelled and expanded, making the hollow recede in his chest, filling it with feelings he didn’t understand but could no longer ignore. He held her tight, pressing her against his chest, a hand at the back of her head, and she hid her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers curling and grasping the fabric on his shoulders for balance. He wanted to be her shelter, to protect her from the world, to make her feel safe and warm and cared for. The more he tightened his hold, the more the melted in his arms and against him. How could he live without this? Without her touch and embrace, without her blind trust and selflessness? Without the strong feeling that she was his, and he was hers, and they perfectly matched each other?

She moved to pull back, softly, and as reluctant as he was, he gave her space. But she only went to kiss his face. His temple, his brows, the bridge of his nose, carefully, sweetly, humming a little in contentment, her fingertips drawing featherlike patterns on his ears and neck, and he closed his eyes under the unbearable delicacy of her touch.

“Don’t stay here”, she whispered quietly, almost just a breath. “Come to bed with me.”

He slowly opened his eyes, afraid of breaking the moment if he watched her, but she was here, all shining eyes and soft smile and rosy cheeks.

“Come”, she repeated between kisses. “You can’t stay in here, come rest in bed.”

He exhaled shakily under her lips and soft fingers, unable to tear himself for her spell until she drew back and rose, taking his hand and pulling at it to encourage him. He obeyed, still silent, and followed her as she exited the byre, walked along the house to the door and crossed the skáli under the slaves’ silent looks. As they entered the back room, their shelter, she lifted his shirt and he let her do as she wanted.

“Go rest”, she whispered. “I’m coming right back.”

And he watched her leave, standing in the room, unmoving, fearing that she would not return, anxiously listening to what she was saying in the next room. Don’t disturb us. Keep the children with you. Bring some food and ale. Quiet commands to ensure their rest and tranquillity and intimacy.

The curtain draw, letting her pass, just as she promised, and she gave him a worried look at seeing him where she had left him.

She made quick work of stripping him bare, then did just the same with her, and led them to the safety of her – their? – bed, where she swiftly resumed her ministrations and explorations, and he wrapped in her arms, fondling her skin, plunging his fingers in the thick mane of her hair, relishing in her warmth and silkiness, kissing her in turns.

How pretty she was, his little mistress. How sweet and lovely and delightful.

“I missed you so much”, she confessed in a soft whisper. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

He couldn’t, either. And this, kissing her jaw and the sensitive skin under her ear, felt like blessing.

“It worried me so much, to know you were out in this storm.”

Oh. It had worried him so much, to know she was crying alone and he couldn’t comfort her.

“I’m sorry”, he whispered, his voice raspy. “I’m sorry I was too afraid to come back to you.”

“Afraid, you?”

She took one of his hands and put it on her ribs, and her fingers traced light caresses from his wrist, up to his shoulder.

“I never knew anyone braver than you”, she whispered again.

Oh, no. He was scared, and he shut his eyes and pressed his nose in her hair to think of something else.

“Tell me.”

He lightly shook his head in refusal, and she draw back enough to watch him, her nose barely brushing his.

“Loki, look at me”, she breathed, making him open his eyes. “You can’t press me into confessing only to hide away from me a few days later.”

He screwed his eyes shut. Wasn’t she right? He had been so insistent the night she dreamt of Ásgeir, even though she was averse to confess how guilty she felt about moving on, about desiring him. And he had made her speak to him. Now, she only wanted the same thing from him. She demanded trust. She demanded truth. Didn’t she deserve both?

She caressed his cheek.

“What scared you?”

He gulped heavily, and took a breath. It was time to jump in.

“I feared that I – that you – that you hated me. Forever.”

“Sshhh.”

She moved her head back – please, don’t draw away from me.

A light kiss on his lips.

“You’re the god of Lies, aren’t you? You told me almost from the beginning. I knew it and yet –“

She interrupted herself, and kissed him more, licking his lower lip, silently asking that he opened his mouth, and he surrendered, letting her take what she wanted, kissing her back, overflown by her forgiveness. His fingers explored her skin, lightly, carefully, almost shyly, because he was afraid that giving into his usual possessiveness would break the spell of the remission she offered him.

She wasn’t so shy, though, and pressed her body onto his, hiking a leg on his hip, tracing the strong muscles of his back down to his buttocks. He liked that she caressed the round flesh of it, and he shuddered as she tilted her hips into his and dug her fingers in his bum to bring him against her, his breath shaky and difficult.

“Eyð”, he whispered.

She hummed softly, an encouragement for him to go on.

“How can you – how could you –“, and his words caught in his throat as she slipped a hand between them and wrapped her fingers around his already hard length, slowly stroking him, paying careful attention to its swollen head. She released him and drew back her hand to take his and guide it between her legs, and oh, how her wetness was a reward, how her smile and shining eyes filled his chest with joy and something deeper he couldn’t name. She squirmed to lay on her back and give him room, her legs parted and bent to invite him. How could he deny her, just as she pardoned him? He settled between her pretty thighs, bracing himself on one elbow, and pushed inside her. Slowly, cautiously.

“You’re too good to me, mistress”, he whispered, and she sighed, her face glowing.

She cupped his face in her hands, and he pliantly bent his head to kiss her languidly, thrusting slow and deep.

He usually was strong and rough, and she obviously delighted in letting him assert his possession and dominance in bed, submitting to her god, worshipping him in this bed that she had turned into an altar. But this morning, this morning, he didn’t want anything but being gentle and tender and caring with her. He, a god, wanted to worship her, a mortal, because she meant everything to him. She was his treasure and his shelter, his warmth and sunny spring, his water and air.

“So indulgent. So forgiving.”

“You’re a dark god, a chaotic god”, she whispered. “I knew it almost since the beginning.”

He gave her an unsure smile, and swallowed her sigh with a kiss. What was she saying? What was on her mind? Yesterday she yelled almost the same statement in an offensive tone, mad with pain and fury. But now, her voice was soft and sweet, and her gaze glowed with warmth and fondness. Yesterday she reproached him his lies. Ironically, he always found himself unable to lie to her. There was something that compelled him to be honest and to tell her the truth, and he hadn’t lied to her since what, to him, looked like ages, because she trusted him so fully, because she was just beginning to be alive again after the dreadful, dark months spent mourning her husband.. He had to confess, hadn’t he?

“I don’t lie to you. I don’t. You make it impossible.”

Her hum turned into a light moan as he fondled her breast and pinched her tight nipple between two fingers. Oh, the delicious shivers that ran on her skin. How could he ever be tired of her?

“My sweet mistress, so responsive to my fingers. Look at you, so beautiful beneath me. So flushed. You’re making such pretty noises, darling.”

Her sighs were growing heavier with pleasure, and he continued to torture her with slow, deep thrusts, although she didn’t complain nor instruct him otherwise.

“I devoted myself to you, and can’t change you, my dark god. What’s the point in loving you if I don’t love you for who you are?”

What did she say? He must have heard wrong. One of her hands slid into his hair, her fingers lightly tugging at his dark locks, and as he was struggling to process her words, he felt it. There, between his shoulder blades. Tiny flickers of seiðr, sparkling deep within him. Why now? He hadn’t felt it since he made her try to cut his collar with pincers, almost two months ago. And – wait – did she say – had she just confessed that she – was it even possible, after what she endured?

“What did you say?” he panted.

“You heard it”, she whined as he gave a stronger thrust. “I love you.”

Warmth expanded in his chest, and it seemed to him that blood rushed to his head, for his ears ranged and he found himself almost blind. He couldn’t see anything but her face, glowing with joy and pleasure, her lips open on her smiles and sighs as he rocked into her with increasing passion.

“Say it again, my beautiful priestess.”

“Yes”, she sighed, “yes, I’m devoted to you, I love you, my tenebrous god.”

Her hand went down his nape and brushed his collar. His eyes snapped open, for he feared, at once, that she might be burned, that the magic might defend the shackle. It only hummed, though, and she opened her eyes too, her expression all at once ecstatic, sure and – proud?

“My heart belongs to you.”

Oh, her words. Could he deny it, now? Didn’t he feel the same? Wasn’t it love that he felt? This urge to protect her, to keep her warm, to pleasure her, to wrap her in his arms and keep her against his chest?

“And mine, to you”, he whispered hoarsely, his pace quickening with the realization of his feelings. Yes, this feeling he didn’t understand, this feeling he didn’t know how to name, this deep trust and fear and adoration. It was love. He knew it, now, and it was evident. An evidence so visible he had cautiously fooled himself by choosing to ignore it, until she spoke the word.

“Yes, yes, my love”, she chanted, her eyes fluttering as her pleasure made her pulse around him.

She was close, and he was following her. She wrapped shaky fingers around the iron circle, moaning in delight.

“With my love, I set you free.”

He heard a sharp click, and immediately felt a strong turmoil, an inner storm swirling inside him, taking possession of him, and had to shut his eyes under the strength of – what – what did he feel? It was like a gush of wind sucking inside the room, engulfing them, like he absorbed the very air and energy surrounding him, with each deep and passionate thrust. And as she cried in ecstasy, clenching around him, something snapped inside him and his seiðr erupted along with his pleasure, and he ground his hips in hers, harder, harder, deaf and blind to all that wasn’t their shared bodies, until he came with a mighty roar and a burst of magic that he didn’t feel coming and found himself unable to restrain.

He collapsed on top of her, breath short and hard, feeling numb and broken like he might have died. Like something was torn inside him. Or rather the contrary, that something had been torn from him and was brutally returned, the brutality of it being almost painful, but mostly exhaustive.

Eyð gathered him in her arms with a light laughter. No. A triumphant laughter, buf soft and voluntarily quiet.

“It worked! It worked, Loki, I did it!”

He lazily rolled on his back and turned his face to her, feeling too much at once.

She loved him. She loved him, she said, and he had admitted he loved her too, something he wouldn’t have said if her brother hadn’t tried to separate them. She was watching him with a victorious grin and shining eyes, a dark circle of iron between her fingers. Loki didn’t recognize the object at once, never having seen it on him. He swiftly put his hand to his neck and blinked in awe. The collar was gone. She was holding it, and it was black, cold and totally useless.

This tingle in his skin, it was not only the remnants of pleasure – of intense pleasure – it was his seiðr, at last, his long-awaited seiðr! He could feel it thrumming in his veins, pulsating with each strong heartbeat, flowing through all his being.

Just as he waved his fingers before his eyes to grin at the green glow of his magic, Orla rushed in the room.

“What happened? What happened?”

All to his relieved joy of having his magic back, Loki didn’t shoot her the usual angry glare she should have deserved. At seeing her taking in the room with wide eyes, a hand hiding her gaping mouth, he propped himself on one elbow and casted a glance.

The furniture, sparse as it was, was wrecked. The two chests were knocked over, their lids open, their contents spilled on the planked floor. A stool was upside down. The heavy curtain hanged down, almost torn off.

He burst in laughter, happier than he could recall, proud of his sweet mistress, and turned to her, gathering her in his arms and holding her tight.

“You did it, Eyð!” he laughed, and she laughed along with him, proud and triumphant, and kissed him with such eager joy that he felt his member twitch again.

“I don’t know how I managed”, she whispered incredulously, her eyes wide and glowing.

He knew. Love was a powerful emotion. Forgiveness was, too. The combination of her love and forgiveness had counterbalanced, and finally neutralised the witch’s wrath and magic. She didn’t even needed blood-magic. She just needed to be herself. He just needed to trust her. Completely, blindly, because the answer was within her, just at his fingertips, and yet could well have stayed secluded if she hadn’t whispered the confession of her feelings. If he hadn’t whispered the confession of his. And this, he explained to her with much care and with many kisses, as he traced runes on her lower belly to cast an infertility spell.

Chapter Text

Eyes on fire
Your spine is ablaze
Felling any foe with my gaze
And just in time
In the right place
Steadily emerging with grace

Blue Foundation, “Eyes On Fire”

XXVII.

Every time her eyes fell on Loki, Eyð’s heart jolted and her chest swelled and expanded with unbridled love. She just had to admit her feelings, and they washed over her like a spring tide, seeping in and filling the hollowness left in her chest by Ásgeirs’ death.

Loki was happier than she ever saw him. He smiled, and joked, and pranked the household, his favourite victims being Orla – and as much as the old woman grumbled at his mischievous tricks, Eyð also swore that she saw the slave’s wrinkled mouth curl in a smile that would forever be denied.

He was exasperatingly showing off. The next thing he did once he was freed of his shackle and he had magically warmed water to enjoy a prolonged bath, was to summon the clothes he used to wear in Asgard. And now he looked so out of place, so overdressed, with his green and black leathers and golden adornments. And the cloak – oh, the cloak! Eyð hadn’t ever seen such a fine cloth, but the ceremonial garment was absolutely useless here in her modest farm. She couldn’t hide her smile in spite of biting her lips, and he punished her for her insolence. Well, she could get used to being insolent, considering the pleasure his punishment gave her.

He trained his seiðr each and every day, to different purposes. What he seemed to like best, however, was training to fight. He summoned small knives that he threw on straw puppets, spinning and rolling around them in a graceful and deadly dance. Each time she watched him, she found herself captivated, and this reminded her he was a brutal, violent, merciless god, which she had seemingly been forgetting as his temper had softened with her.

However, she also felt deeply concerned about the way he used his magic. His trainings often left him completely spent, and he had to sit for several minutes to catch his breath and be able to barely walk back to the house. She tried, once, to warn him against overexertion, but he just gave her a patronizing smirk, chuckling a careless “I’m a god, darling”, before silencing her protests with kisses.

Insufferable god.

It was barely a fortnight since she had managed to open the collar, and he was getting his strength back, but his progresses were slow. The witch’s magic must have been very potent, because he should be stronger, shouldn’t he? Loki refused to listen to her worries, though, treating her with amused condescendence when she dared suggest that maybe, maybe, he ought to be careful and take his time.

One morning, he decided upon training with Kórmakur and creating doubles to surround the boy and make him fight quicker.

She was outside, dyeing wool in a caldron, while Ronan expertly sliced the cods he had fished with the god in the morning and hanged them on wooden poles to make them dry in the wind. Being next to them made it possible to keep an eye on Loki. He had almost fainted with exertion the previous day, and had slept like a log all night long. Today, he seemed fine, though, even if a bit paler than usual, and impatiently snorted when she shot him a worried glance. She took a deep inhale, doing her best to ignore him, and set to work.

It was a bright, cold, windy day, a day that held the promise of a spring soon to come. A day that made her miss Norway, because there weren’t any trees on which to observe budding leaves, here in the middle of the sea.

Kórmakur and Loki stood face to face. The boy readied himself, crouching slightly to enhance his balance, while Loki deceptively stood in a nonchalant way, almost looking bored. And then, at once, without a warning, the both of them were surrounded by three perfect replicas of the god. The boy looked around him, his eyes wide, and Loki inclined his head on the right, a questioning and amused light in his eyes.

“I don’t fear you, Trickster!” shouted the boy, lunging towards one of the doubles. In vain, for it easily sidestepped with a mischievous chortle. This gave the start of their session.

Kórmakur did his best as he sparred with the dark god, spinning, dodging, rolling on the floor to avoid his multiple attacks as the doubles left him no respite. Loki didn’t even produce daggers. He only used a straw to touch the boy, who was growing infuriated and struggled to keep his calm.

“Enough, Loki”, she called in a light tone, eager of not arousing the god’s temper. “Let the boy have a moment of rest.”

“I positively disagree”, he drawled. “Enemies won’t stop when he gets tired. He has to find the force to fight even when he’d rather sit beside the fire.”

“I don’t need to stop, mistress”, said Kórmakur in protest.

Eyð sighed and shook her head, internally rolling her eyes at their display of masculine pride. Women knew when to spare their strength, and when to spend it.

And so they went on until Kórmakur got so slow that the doubles surrounded him and he couldn’t escape their contact anymore, and then until the doubles became inconsistent, impalpable as smoke and their aspect faltered to transparency. Both of the sparring partners sat on the grass, breathing heavily, sweat abundantly damping their hair and shirts.

“You’re too harsh on him”, she said to the god.

“He didn’t complain. Do you now, boy?” He finished his sentence turning his head to Kórmakur, who was breathing too hard to answer and only shook his head negatively.

Loki turned his eyes to her, raising his brows in an exasperating I told you manner that made her roll her eyes.

A movement caught her eye, and she blanched, frozen in terror, unable to speak, only pointing to Loki’s back. Men were coming, out of nowhere. They hadn’t landed in the cove everyone used when they came by sea.

Loki turned and sprung to his feet, belying his state of fatigue.

“Kórmakur, get inside the house. You too, darling.”

“Who are they?”

“We’ll soon know.“

They were a threat, without any possible doubt. Eyð counted ten of them, maybe a few more, as some of them moved inside the group. All armed, carrying helmets, shields, swords and battle axes. Two of them had spears.

“They’re coming for you”, she said in a trembling voice, “Tórmoður sent them.”

It was the only possible way. Her brother couldn’t wait and had sent a party of warriors to kill Loki, in case his words were not enough to tear them apart.

“He’s vindictive”, Loki groaned.

Eyð’s blood froze in her veins. Loki was strong and well-trained, he was a god, but she couldn’t help fearing for him. Hadn’t he just spent too much forces sparring with Kormakur? Hadn’t he overestimated his magic? Was he fully recovered after being weakened by the witch’s magic collar for so long?

“Eyð, go inside.”

His voice was sharp, commanding, and admitted no refusal. She clenched her teeth. Her brother’s men likely had received the order not to harm her.

“No. I’ll talk to them.”

He shot her a dark, furious glare, and as she stood her ground, glaring at him for wanting to remove her, his upper lip curled upwards, just a ghost of a smile he would never concede he had. He straightened, taking a deep inhale.

“Behave. You’re still my leysingi”, she warned, calling him a freed slave to remind him of their sham.

He sighed, exasperated. His pride and arrogance grew with his newfound freedom, and she remembered, now, that he was a prince, even though he was still attentive to her.

“Before the fight begins, I want you to run and hide inside. Bar the door and don’t come out until I tell you. Don’t you disobey my command, darling.”

A dark thrill coursed through her. The god was studying her features, though, and his lips curled in a cruel smirk.

“Don’t try me”, he added in an ominous purr that made her shiver.

She nodded frantically to appease him, but got closer to him all the same, as much to protect him as to feel protected.

The party approached and she could identify the men now. Eleven. They must have landed on the northern coast of the island, and a twelfth man was probably guarding their boat. They were her brother’s warriors. She recognized two men called Leifur and Þórður, spotted Arni and Kollfinnr – and blamed herself, as she should have guessed that they would want to avenge themselves – but was relieved that Ólafur was not amongst them. She felt – knew – Loki was about to hurt – no, kill – some these men, and didn’t want to deal with an endless cycle of vengeance with her husband’s family.

“Who sends you?” she demanded, her voice firmer than she first feared.

“Get inside the house, woman, and no harm shall come to you.”

“No harm shall come to anyone of my household. Go back to your master, and tell you didn’t fight us.”

Some of the men laughed ominously.

“We came for him, as you guessed”, called Arni. “He’s finally going to learn his place.”

“You really have no idea of who I am, do you?” said Loki with a cruel smile and a dark glint in his eyes.

This was going wrong, very wrong.

“Now Eyð, you should go away. We’re coming for him”, Arni said, motioning his head to Loki, “and aren’t here to pillage the farm nor to slaughter anyone. Tórmoður made this point very clear.”

The man’s words confirmed what she thought. Tórmoður wasn’t a patient man, and rather than waiting a few weeks, he had decided to give his problem a violent end.

“One last time, Eyð: go to the house and bar the door.”

Loki’s voice was dark and threatening. A shiver crept under her skin and made her shake violently. He barely turned his head to her and casted a quick glance, reluctant as he was to taking his eyes off of them.

“Right”, she whispered, turning towards the house with a heavy heart and walking with as much dignity as she could muster.

***

“Shall we?” said Loki with a brash smile, summoning daggers as soon as he heard the front door smash in his back.

She was safe, and it was all that mattered. He highly doubted her brother’s men would attempt anything against her or her son. Neither would they slaughter her livestock. The chieftain’s wrath was formidable enough to persuade them not to take advantage.

“Don’t fight back, þræll, and I’ll kill you quick and clean”, said a man with filthy dark hair and rotten teeth.

He laughed, half crouching to have a better balance. There had been some time since he had a proper fight, and eleven humans weren’t a number that could make him afraid. His eyes went swiftly from one to another, and his brains noticed their forces and weaknesses. An old knee injury that made one lightly limp, a cough, a weakened wrist. Three of them were more than easy prey to him. The two men with the spears were more of a threat, as they could try to harm him from a distance.

Letting them approach, Loki waited until they started the fight. The closest man ran to him and swung his sword, only slicing the air as Loki rolled past him on the ground, making him yell as he spun and stabbed him in the kidneys. One. Turning to face his other opponents, he dodged another sword cut and stabbed the man under his arm, piercing the lungs. Two. Threw a dagger in Arni’s throat and watched him fall with pleasure. Three. This one deserved to bleed to death.

The other men slowed down and cautiously circled him.

“Where did you learn fighting like this?” one of them asked.

“The god of Thunder and I trained together”, he purred, and lunging to the closest man, he cut a deep wound in his forearm, making the man shriek, before cutting his throat. Four.

That left seven of them. Five with short swords and two with spears. The easiest way would be to summon a double – or two – and fight along with them. But he felt tired after his session with Kórmakur, and his doubles had slowly vanished into thin air as his fatigue took over. He wasn’t even certain he could keep one double so long as to end the fight, and his lips pressed involuntarily with frustration.

He had to. It was the only way to get it over with and end it quickly.

With a deep breath, he reached for his seiðr and summoned a double.

But nothing came.

His fingers glowed green with what little seiðr was left in him, and nothing else.

Fuck.

Seeing him motionless and disconcerted, one of the two warriors holding a spear threw his weapon to him, and he swiftly sidestepped to dodge it. This was seemingly a signal for the five men bearing swords to attack him simultaneously with a loud war cry.

Loki acted on pure instinct and reflexes, spinning, rolling, hitting his opponents with his fists, breaking bones, slicing through flesh with a sword he picked on the ground.

“Presumptuous stupid pigs”, he yelled as a blade cut his arm, drawing blood. There were three men left. He charged with a roar and stabbed one of them in the guts, pulled his sword and spun, slicing the air and aiming to the closest man’s throat – which he slashed open with a wet sound. A shock in the shoulder drew the air from his lungs though, and made him stop in his tracks. He didn’t see Kolfinnr coming. Lowering his gaze, he found a spear deeply set between his neck and his left arm.

Impossible. First the sword, now this. They shouldn’t even have been able to cut his skin for a start. Well, his arm was incapacitated, but his heart could have been pierced should the warrior have stabbed him a little lower. But still, they shouldn’t have been able to give him more than a scratch.

Removing the long blade from his body, he raised his eyes to the warrior’s face, broke the staff on his knee with a furious roar and plunged it under Kolfinnr’s chin and up inside his skull, letting him collapse at his feet with an atrocious gurgle as blood spurted from the man’s throat.

The last two men exchanged a fearful look and turned on their heels, running for their lives. Loki grabbed the discarded spear he had avoided and threw it, stabbing one of the men through the chest and killing him instantly. One left. He picked a battle axe, a well-balanced weapon, and threw it too. It lodged its sharp blade between the warrior’s shoulder blades, and the man fell with a loud cry.

It was done. He was standing, alone, in the meadow, surrounded with his enemies’ bodies.

The ravens were going to feast upon them.

The ravens.

Húgin and Múnnin. Odin’s ravens. Maybe they would see him, at last, and tell the Allfather where he tarried. Should he worry about it?

For now, he should worry about his wound. And about the last warrior, who was likely watching the boat.

He reached for his seiðr to stop the bleeding, relieved as the familiar warmth filled him and knitted his flesh back together. His nose wrinkled under the consciousness that this was only temporary healing and he would need to properly see to it.

And now, he had to take care of the bodies and of the last man.

He turned at the sound of the door opening, scowling at Eyð and Ronan as they crossed the threshold and she ran to him, the slave following with a rolling gait on his bowed legs. His blood boiled with anger, and the aftermath of the battle made it impossible for him to tame the wildfire that spread in his veins. She disobeyed him. She came out, not waiting for his signal. He put her in danger, being her lover, becoming an obstacle to her brother’s projects, and she disobeyed his command of staying put in the shelter of the house.

“Why are you out?” Loki shouted.

She took in her surroundings in shock. The bodies. The blood. The horrible wounds. She couldn’t tear her eyes off of Kolfinnr, his skull pierced through by the broken spear staff. The look of horror on her face was painful, but the look she gave him, knowing he was responsible for all this killing, was unbearable.

She was afraid of him. Gone were the tenderness and adoration that had been warming her eyes, these past weeks.

Meet the god of Chaos, he thought bitterly, and he gave her a cruel smile. After all, she knew who he was when she chose him, didn’t she?

She said nothing, though, but came to him with a guarded gaze until she noticed his injured shoulder.

“Loki, you’re –“

“That’s nothing”, he cut, his voice hard. For now, he had to deal with the corpses. And with the last man.

She gave him an unsure look and a tremor of repugnance made her shake violently. What could be more repellent to her? Touching the bodies or imagine herself sleeping with the murderer he was? Doing his best to push these thoughts away and keep his indifferent composure, Loki waved his hands towards the corpses, finally clenching his fists into tight balls as they vanished into thin air. Transporting bodies required a lesser amount of seiðr than materializing a double. This he could still afford for now, even if his exhaustion made him feel weak. He took a deep breath, swiping sweat from his brow, taking a few seconds to catch on his wobbly legs before grabbing a discarded sword on the ground to stride north, where the boat was likely beached, where he had sent the dead warriors’ remains.

Loki walked as fast as his long legs and tiredness allowed him to, focusing on the task to finish rather than on his own fatigue. Eyð caught up with him, running and breathing hard.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, panic peaking in her voice.

“Don’t come if you don’t want to know.”

Was it necessary to be this cruel with her?

Yes, a sly voice whispered in his mind.

And no.

But it was in his nature, wasn’t it? He was always so good at ruining everything.

His stomach clenching with self-disgust, he kept walking, not even looking at her. Her. She had given everything to him. Food, shelter, clothes. Her body and her love. Her sweet cunt and their shared pleasure.

Why did he feel the urge of being cruel? Hadn’t he confessed his love, too?

Love is nothing but an illusion.

Her love turned into fear. Weren’t her eyes eloquent enough? If he wanted a priestess, respect and devotion could mix with a good measure of fear. But if he was in search of a lover…

Losing himself in his thoughts helped Loki not to pay too much attention to Eyð, trotting behind him with effort, trying to catch up with his unforgiving quick pace. She no longer tried to speak to him, and the god couldn’t decide if her silence – no, she wasn’t silent, for he could hear her heavy breath – appeased him or increased his irritation.

After a few minutes, for this boring island was indeed very small, they reached the north shore. He had guessed right: a boat was stranded, a man sitting next to it, his back to the land.

Not even a seasoned warrior, Loki thought with an inner scoff.

“Who stands guard with their back to the enemy?” he called, his voice dripping with disdain.

The man jumped to his feet, and Loki could see he was very young. A teenager more than a man, barely fourteen years, and trembling with terror at his sight, his mouth open like a fish out of the water.

“Come meet your end, boy”, he snarled.

The boy didn’t move, petrified as he was. Eyð caught up with him and laid a hand on Loki’s arm.

“Don’t kill him”, she said through heavy pants. “Send him back.”

“To whom?”

They approached the boy who was still motionless, and Loki easily grabbed his weapon to toss it into the sea, before squeezing his throat with his right hand.

“Loki, no!” she cried.

“Who sent you?”

The boy couldn’t answer, all air being cut by the god’s grasp, and only turned his eyes to Eyð.

“Is it her brother, the chieftain?”

“Of course Tórmoður sent him! This is Dagbjört’s nephew!”

The boy managed a weak nod, and took a few steps back as soon as Loki released him. With a wave of the god’s hand, the eleven dead bodies of his fellow warriors were piled inside the boat. With another wave, the hull scrapped on pebbles as she was drawn back into water.

“You’d better jump inside if you want to go back from whence you came. Or else, the mistress shall keep you as a slave, family or not. And I won’t be as benevolent as she.”

The boy did as he was told, this time moved by his instinct of preservation, and Loki laughed at seeing him running like a hare and nimbly getting aboard.

“Go back to Tórmoður”, he called, using what seiðr he could summon to make the boat travel to her destination, “and tell him that Loki, god of Lies and Chaos, sends his regards!”

His legs didn’t support him anymore, his stomach protested violently and he was on the verge of throwing out. Black spots danced before his eyes. He didn’t even wait for the boat to turn past the cliff to collapse on his knees out of exhaustion.

There was only one way to regain his forces. One way, and he had to use it, however he loathed to.

“Heimdall”, he called in a feeble voice. And everything went black.

Chapter Text

Through dark and light I fight to be

So close, shadows and lies mask you from me
So close, bathe my skin the darkness within

Ólafur Arnalds, “So close”

XXVIII.

A roar.

A powerful roar, filled with pain, anger and divine might, following the echoes of the battle. They all heard the clangs of swords and the painful yells of men.

Gathered in a corner of the skáli with the other women and the children, Eyð shivered violently.

This roar. Loki’s voice.

And after, nothing.

Nothing but the howling wind.

Why was it so silent at once?

Giving her son to Orla, she stood and ran to the door. She had to know.

Infringing Loki’s specific orders, as she went out and met his furious stare, and there was nothing but his silence, too. He spoke a few short words to her – Why are you out? –, and they were so were so sharp she didn’t dare talking to him, feeling rebuked like a disobedient child. Everything in him called his divine nature to her mind. His stiff, haughty composure. The angry authority in his eyes. His thin lips, tightly pressed in displeasure. And the blood – oh, all this blood, everywhere in the grass, on his hands and clothes and very face – because he was a god of Destruction, after all, wasn’t he? Didn’t she know it from the very beginning? In spite of his affection, of his love, if she could be presumptuous enough to believe he loved her, he wasn’t a benevolent god. That much he had repeated often enough.

She watched the destruction he caused. The men dead by his hand. Oh, all the blood!

Severed limbs. Throats slit. Daggers deeply sunk into flesh. And Kolfinnr, a man she had well known, his head impaled by a broken staff, fresh blood still glistening all over his throat and chest, his open eyes still clear and vivid, absently watching the sky while his beard and chin and neck were all smeared with blood. This image she was sure never to forget.

She sure had already seen blood. Her own blood, every moon, and when she became a mother, but mostly she had seen the blood of animals. Of birds she hunted and killed to eat in summer. Of sheep, every autumn. Of whales, when Ásgeir occasionally managed to push one to the shore and the whole household killed and cut it to store the meat and grease.

But she never saw men slaughtered like beasts.

Loki had killed them all. Eleven warriors, all by himself.

He watched her in repelled disdain as she turned horrified eyes upon him. He was covered in blood, reddish stains smearing his beautiful face, soiling his leather garment. His doublet was cut in the upper arm and in the left shoulder, and he bled. Had the weapon struck him a little lower in the chest –

She hoped she managed no to look too scared as she pointed to his wounds.

“Loki, you’re –“

But he snapped to shut her off once again and turned, striding to the north shore, picking a sword on the ground. She persisted in following him in spite of his harshness, half-walking and half-running behind him, not saying a word, only pressed by a strong urge to make sure he would be safe and he wouldn’t harm anyone anymore.

As they made their way to the strand and he called the sentry guarding the boat, she realized he intended to kill the very young man. He was Dagga’s nephew – what was his name? – and as so, related to Tórmoður. Loki grabbed the boy’s neck and squeezed, evidently aiming to throttle his helpless victim. 

“Loki, no!”

There was no use calling him by any other name, for in this very moment, he was the God of Chaos and Destruction, and he was yelling at the boy to have him confirming that Tórmoður sent a party of warriors to kill him.

“This is Dagga’s nephew! Of course Tórmoður sent him!”

She managed to make the god spare his life at the very last moment, as Loki’s hand strongly gripped the boy’s neck, his fingers digging in the flesh to end his life. A clutch she had felt herself, in the byre, on a night that seemed so long away from now. And yet, the god’s wrath she was watching right now was very different of his anger back at that time. He had managed to intimidate her and bring her into submission, not to kill her, which was his very purpose now.

Still, she managed to alleviate his temper, and sighed in relief as he relaxed his grip. The boy wheezed with effort but didn’t take so much time to fly to the boat, and Loki magically sent him back to Árnafjørður, the bodies piled inside the hull, sneering at the poor boy.

Back to Árnafjørður, for the boy’s silent confession confirmed them what Arni already had said before meeting his end: Tórmoður wanted Loki dead. Of course, her brother ignored that her lover wasn’t just some high-born hostage. He ignored it for now, since she had called him by his name and the god had claimed his true identity to the young warrior. Would Tórmoður believe him, blinded by his pride as he was?

Eyð couldn’t tear her eyes off of Loki.

Despite his mad fury in the aftermath of the battle, he was more glorious and beautiful than ever, carrying himself tall and proud like the victor he was, a commanding glint in his green eyes, his dark locks whipping in the strong wind. A violent shiver coursed through her body.

For the very first time, she felt conscious that she was seeing the true extent of her lover’s powers.

He was a god, she knew it.

But now, as she witnessed it, this knowledge had another meaning, and she finally dropped her eyes to the ground in deference. Wasn’t it what he demanded? He had commanded that she stayed inside the house until he came for her, had threatened her with punishment, and she disobeyed all the same. Now was the time to show a good measure of reverence.

He was a god.

She couldn’t even see any sign of weakness before he passed out and collapsed on the pebbles.

***

Loki woke to the freshness of a wet cloth on his skin.

Eyð had managed to bring him back, strip his torso and was now tending to him. Like a dutiful wife.

Except that she could never be his wife.

Because Odin would never allow it, and because her frightened looks told him he terrified her.

Her uncertain, guarded eyes were set on his shoulder, and she carefully cleaned the crusted blood caked on his skin. Why was she doing it, after the terror he read in her eyes as she was standing amongst the slaughtered warriors? Out of fear? Out of devotion? For that was her word, wasn’t it? Devotion. And wasn’t it what he had asked for?

Yet she disobeyed him, and he made his anger very clear when she noticed with a jolt that he wasn’t unconscious anymore.

A jolt.

He frightened her.

He frightened her so much he hated himself for it, and inexplicable anger rose against her for being afraid of him. And so, when she babbled her answers, he lost patience and grabbed her wrist to coax her into submission.

He knew other ways, though. Pleasure and sweet torture were quite efficient with her. But now, now, she wouldn’t be receptive to his caresses.

He felt so weak, so diminished, so – hadn’t he called Heimdall? He needed his strength back, and the quickest solution he thought of was to go back temporarily to Asgard and heal. But since she was so terrified of him, was it worth coming back in any case?

Thunder cracked loudly.

So soon. And in the same time, so late. Hadn’t he been waiting for weeks, for months, in hope that Thor would finally come and help him back?

Loki wasn’t ready to been seen in such state of weakness by his indomitable brother, his laying in Eyð’s bed being the least weak he could look. He didn’t want Thor to be able to laugh of his commitment with a mortal, for he, the Silvertongue, was well-known in Asgard for being an incorrigible, heartless skirt chaser, and didn’t’ want his reputation to be changed for a mortal, even for her. He had to dress, had to stand. Gritting his teeth, he turned and asked for a shirt, maybe a bit harshly. Well, she wasn’t to blame, he was well aware of it, but he was fucking everything so completely he didn’t even knew if he could save anything.

He didn’t want Thor to know about her. To know about his feelings. Loki himself couldn’t even say what he was feeling.

As Thor entered the skáli and scared the household, making the children cry and yelp, all Loki knew was that he wanted to leave and bury himself in his long-missed bed for ages.

***

They managed to carry him back to the house, using a blanket as a makeshift stretcher. He didn’t regain consciousness when they laid him in bed, nor when Eyð stripped him of his leather doublet and cut the fabric of his shirt – his favourite shirt, the one he told her once he had bought in Alfheim – to take care of his wound. She would mend it later.

The flesh looked already closed, even if angry and red. Like a very fresh, forming scar. Crusted blood was still sticking to his skin, though, and Eyð started cleaning him with a wet cloth, cautiously, swiping gently, barely brushing the fabric in fear of hurting him.

A quick look to his face made her jolt.

Loki was staring at her through half-open lids, his green eyes impenetrable. No shiver, no change in his breathing gave her a hint of his awakening.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were conscious”, she said. “You startled me.”

“What are you doing?”

His voice was cold and harsh like before.

“Tending to your injury.”

He grunted, and she held her breath.

Uneasy under his intent stare, she drew back her eyes to his shoulder, trying to focus on her current task. She wasn’t a healer, just knew how to clean a wound with fresh water and apply plantain leaves on it to make the flesh scar faster.

Another quick look.

His face was now turned to the wall, lips closed, eyes gazing in the air. He looked totally absent.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered tentatively.

Silence.

She swallowed and bit her lower lip. Something was wrong. Why was he so cold and withdrawn?

“Are you upset with me?” she whispered again.

“Upset? No.”

The sigh she was about to let out caught in her throat as she met his implacable stare.

“Furious would be the accurate term.”

She swallowed with a gulp.

“You disobeyed my command. You were to stay put until I came.”

“Because I was worried about you.”

He scoffed.

“Nonsense. I am a god, with all my power.”

She closed her lips, but couldn’t help raising her brows. With all his power, he had collapsed on the ground, exhausted by his efforts.

His hand shot and grabbed her wrist, his fingers like iron around her flesh.

“Are you doubting it, Eyð?”

Oh. Eyð, not darling. Cold and formal. It hurt. It hurt almost like his strong grip.

“Is something the matter?”

Her voice was weak and unsteady, and her throat constricted as his eyes narrowed and flashed with fury.

“I expressly demanded that you stayed here, and you chose to ignore my words.”

His angry conceit stabbed her like a dagger. His voice was terribly hard and mean. She winced under the pain, and let a whimper.

“It’s painful!”

He immediately released her, his hand shooting back as if her touch had burned him. And his eyes, oh his eyes!

Unable to hold his stare anymore, she bent her head and muttered the only words that could form in her mind.

“I don’t understand”, she whispered, rubbing her skin with her other hands. The red imprints of his fingers was clearly visible, and she knew she would bruise soon.

Thunder cracked loudly, making her jolt. The children cried in the next room. With effort and a heavy sigh, he sat, propping himself on his arms, and turned to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I must go. I need to heal. Give me a new shirt.”

No look at her, only a short command, as if she was nothing but a servant.

What? She blinked a few time, her brains struggling to proceed what his previous words implied. Why was he being mean? Where was her lover, demanding as he was?

“Now”, he added in an imperious tone that forced her to stand and do as he said, placing the fine shirt she had sewn and embroidered in his hand.

He stripped swiftly and slipped the fresh garment, along with a schooled face she knew too well. His mask of casual indifference. The face he wore when he lied. And as she was opening her lips to speak, the front door opened with a loud bang, and the slave women shrieked. Loki rolled his eyes, stood, and went to the skáli.

“Ah, brother”, boomed a deep voice, “what are you doing here? Heimdall spotted you only a short time ago, and with great difficulties.”

The god’s broad shoulders took all the door frame, and she couldn’t see who he was talking to. But by the short, ragged breath of her slaves, the cries of the babies and the man’s calling Loki brother, it was easy to guess. What could the god of Thunder be doing here, in her humble farm? Loki took a few steps and was greeted by a strong embrace as his brother crushed him in a virile hug.

Eyð sneaked to Melkorka and took little Ásgeir in her arms, cradling him in a reassuring way before daring looking at the second god. He was as tall and broad as in all the stories she had heard, his blond hair shining like the sun and his mighty laughter filling the room. As she crossed his striking blue stare, she lowered her eyes in shyness.

“Loki, who are these people?”

Loki casted a quick look at her, then at the slaves, before turning his eyes back to the god of Thunder.

“Let’s go home, brother”, he said merrily. “I’ll tell you the whole story on the way.”

And they walked to the door, arm in arm, laughing together.

What did he say? Was he leaving? Like this? Without even saying goodbye?

“Loki, wait!” she called before she even thought of it.

Loki didn’t stop. But Thor did, and turned to her, looking at her in benevolence. Loki only half-turned.

“Yes, my Lady?” he asked softly before an embarrassed silence settled.

She had to clear her throat. Why was he calling her that? How should she address him?

“Are you thirsty, my Lord? Or hungry? Would you care for some ale, perhaps, or a bowl of skyr?”

Turning his beautiful face to her, Loki lifted his chin with more hauteur she ever saw in him.

“Thank you, Eyð. We won’t tarry any longer.”

Eyð? Why was he being formal and used her name? Why didn’t he called her darling like he always did?

“What?” she breathed.

“Why, Loki, don’t be rude with the lady. She’s offering us her hospitality.”

“She’s very keen on the laws of hospitality. But we must go.”

How could he be so cold to her? What did she do to earn this disdain? His voice was a dark purr, the one he used when he tortured her with pleasure at night. The one he used when he assessed his power upon her. He turned to the door and exited.

Dumbstruck, Eyð turned uncertain eyes to Orla.

“Give me the baby” said the old woman. “Go after him. He’s not himself.”

She ran after them as they walked away towards the cliff.

“Loki!” she called, and they stopped, waiting for her.

The god of Thunder said something that made her god roll his eyes.

“I don’t understand. Why are you so cold to me? Why are you leaving?”

He stared at her in silence, and she fidgeted, uneasy under his scrutinizing hard stare.

“I must heal, can’t you see?”

“Won’t you kiss me goodbye? Please?”

He took a demonstrative deep breath, as if to calm down and show his exasperation.

“Will you come back?”

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes opened wide at his words, as a ripping pain tore her chest in two. Yes, she’d heard well, and there was no need convincing herself she misunderstood his words. He rejected her in the cruellest manner. She just needed – wanted – an explanation.

“Am I boring?”

“You’re a mortal, mortal. Now walk back, unless you want Heimdall to hurt you, even involuntarily.”

She did as he said.

“Will I see you again?”

He clenched his jaw and gave her a silent stare. A stare she couldn’t decipher, both cold, hard, and heavy with something she couldn’t name.

“Heimdall!” he called with force, his face turned to the sky.

With a loud crack, light enveloped them, shining with bright colours. And the next moment, they were gone.

Eyð stood alone.

Alone and stupefied under the empty sky, her face whipped by strands of hair escaped from her braid, her mind blank.

Failing to understand.

What did he say?

He was bored. She was a boring mortal.

She nodded to herself, more as a reflex than a gesture of genuine understanding, because her mind failed to process what had just happened.

Boredom.

But he said other words, a few weeks ago. Words that helped her open his collar. My heart belongs to you.

Why did her eyes burn suddenly?

She gulped in attempt to soothe her parched throat. In vain.

Her body turned on his own volition and walked to the farm.

Liar.

She should have known.

He never hid that he wanted to leave. Ever. Her hand got badly burned the day is was desperately trying to escape his shackles, hoping he would be able to leave the island.

The only question that lingered in her mind was, why had he been waiting so long since he got free from the magical restraint? Why had he been tarrying, as he said?

Because she always knew he would not stay forever, didn’t she? But she fiercely hoped that they would part in good terms, at least. Instead of that, he behaved cruelly, and she didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand.

And old thoughts crept back into her mind.

The god of Lies. So fickle. So untrustworthy.

Things she hadn’t thought about for many months went back in full force, along with all his cruelties. His harsh words and disdain. His mocking. And her memory forced images of him before her eyes. He standing tall before her and sneering at her dead husband. His hand wrapped around her throat, demanding she called him a god. His forearms covered in blood as he skinned the dead seal, letting her watch inside the beast’s belly to prove in the worst possible manner that Ásgeir was no shape-shifter.

But also, he trembling in her arms as he cautiously entered her for the first time. Kissing her deep and possessive. Nipping at her neck and marking her skin for all to see. Grunting above her and whispering praises as he rode her, night after night.

She's very keen on the laws of hospitality.

She wiped her face, willing to wipe the memories along with whatever water was on her cheeks.

He lied. All this time, he lied, the bloody bastard of a god!

She made her way to the sheep pen, already knowing that only hard work could help her to keep her mind busy enough. She had already reacted like that, with more or less success, half a year ago, and it helped her survive Ásgeir’s death. Loki wasn’t dead, after all. He was just a liar. She would survive this.

Chapter Text

No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies

The Who, “Behind Blue Eyes”

XXIX.

As Loki stepped in the observatory, he sighed in relief.

Home, finally.

Heimdall gave him an impenetrable stare and a slight nod which he chose not to respond. He didn’t want to know how long the Watcher had been keeping an eye on him, nor what he had seen.

But Heimdall must have seen nothing, for nothing was to be seen in the Faroe, wasn’it?

Nothing was to be seen. Nothing but barren islands, sheep, cod and, of course, the terrible weather.

And her.

Lowering his head and slightly shaking it to send his thoughts away, he gathered his forces and strode to the bridge, not waiting for Thor, feigning strength and detachment. He just wanted to go and lock into his chambers for a good sleep, and then go back to his former life and forget everything about this regrettable incident.

Heavy steps echoed at his sides and a massive clap in the back almost made him trip.

“Brother, wait for me!” said Thor with a loud laughter. “Why so sombre? Don’t you rejoice of being back?”

“I’m utterly delighted, on the contrary.”

His bright smile belied the bitterness rising in his throat.

You wanted to return, Loki. You longed for it. What is that strange feeling in your chest?

“Mother will be happy, too” exclaimed Thor.

Loki stopped in his tracks, his brows slightly frowned.

“Tell me, brother. What do Mother and Father know about my… sojourning in Miðgard?”

“Oh, I don’t exactly know what Heimdall told them. Only that he found you on this island, and couldn’t see you anywhere in the universe until a few hours ago.”

Loki nodded. A few hours. He knew well that time was relative and didn’t pass as fast in Asgard and in Miðgard. To him, it’d been a fortnight since he got rid of the collar, when the events happened in a considerably shorter time here in the Realm eternal.

Heimdall must have seen everything, of course, starting with the burst of magic that immediately followed the opening of the shackle, when he was ploughing into her. His relationship with the household – the Watcher must have seen that he almost behaved like he was one of them, and it shamed him. For he, a Prince of Asgard, a God, wasn’t to be seen committing with mortals.

The playful conversations he’d shared with that old fool of Ronan, the pranks elaborated along with the impish Kórmakur, the huddles with the babies. And, above all, his nights with her, which were to be kept for them two – and were seen by the Keeper.

He had wished for Heimdall to find him in the first days of his captivity. Had desperately called him from the high cliffs of Svínoy. Only to finally been found in moments he was being soft with the family. How ironic.

By the bloody Nornir, get a grip on yourself, Loki.

“Very well, let us go and see them.”

They informally met the Allfather in his study, where Mother was already waiting, too. Loki felt his heart swell at seeing her after all these months.

Only a few weeks, to her.

Odin kept sitting in his chair, absently reading a report, whereas Mother went to give him a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

“You look thin, my darling”, she said after examining him. “Have you been eating well?”

He gave a careless chortle.

“The food was rather insipid. Porridge, bread, soup.”

“My poor boy. I’ll be very attentive to your menus, you’ll need to catch up.”

“Thank you, mother.”

“What about your visit to the High King of Elves? Heimdall failed to see you. The Elfish kingdom must be magically sheltered from his sight, I reckon?”

Odin’s voice was cold, as usual. He knew, and the question was a trap. His first reflex was to lie. But Odin would expect this from him. The better option was to lie by omission.

“I must confess that I didn’t meet the High King, Father. I was trapped by a Miðgardian witch, whose magic was very powerful, and was sold as a slave. Then, Norsemen captured me. I have spent a few months on an isolated island in the middle of the sea.”

“Where a woman finally managed to set you free, as Heimdall reported.”

Odin’s keen eye was scrutinizing Loki. What did he know? He felt uneasy under the Allfather’s stare, and raised his chin in disdain, his lips stirring to a light smile that helped him to keep his countenance.

“Indeed.”

“Oh, my poor boy, a slave?”

Frigga’s eyes were full of worry and pain. She clutched her hands to keep them from trembling.

“Be reassured, Mother. The mortal did not treat be as her fellow people usually treat slaves. She fed me, gave me clothes, allowed me to wash and to sleep inside the house.”

Inside her very bed. Inside her.

“So you weren’t mistreated?”

She slapped me once. I deserved it.

He only shook his head.

“How comes a mortal managed to break a spell so powerful you couldn’t do it yourself?”, asked Odin in a suspicious tone.

“That’s what I’ll search for in the library, Father”, he answered with his most charming smile.

“I’ll take you to Eir, Loki”, said Mother with a warm smile. “Your paleness shows how much you’re exhausted.”

Could he be lucky enough to be removed this fast from Odin’s inquisitive eye?

A quick glance to Odin made him sure that the Allfather agreed with Mother, and he whispered a short Thank you, turning and following her to the door.

As he held it open for her, Odin’s clipped tone echoed in his back.

“I hope you made sure she remained infertile.”

He swallowed heavily, and slowly turning his head to Odin, not daring to meet the Allfather’s only eye, answered in a choked voice.

“I did, Father.”

Mother gave him a smile and a look he couldn’t decipher. What was she thinking?

They silenly walked to Eir’s rooms. The goddess welcomed them with a warm smile. Loki repeated to her what he had already told to the Allfather.

“Heimdall said you practically fainted out of exhaustion.”

Loki internally rolled his eyes at Mother’s worries.

“A temporary lapse of weakness, nothing more”, he said with a charming smile.

“Let me please examine you, Prince.”

He laid in the Soul Forge that Eir was making a gesture of invitation at, and tried to relax. There was no use struggling with both Eir and Mother.

“Your seiðr is indeed very weak, and your force with it. You need to rest, Prince.”

Eir watched him intently and frowned.

“Are you wounded, Prince?”

“No.”

“Loki, take your shirt off.”

He sighed.

“Mother, really, I –“

“Off with this shirt.”

Her voice was firm in spite of her motherly smile. He did as he was told, tossing the garment on the floor, and laid back.

Mother and Eir exchanged a concerned look at seeing his shoulder.

“Miðgardians managed to inflict this injury to you?”

“Yes, with a spear”, he answered, half groaning and half murmuring.

“You really need to rest, my dear boy”, said Mother, caressing his forehead with light fingers. Tracing the bridge of his nose with her forefinger, she repeated, “Rest”, and sleep wrapped him.

With sleep came dreams.

Loki knew them to be dreams. And memories. And yet, his state of unconsciousness didn’t make them less painful.

Her eyes as she asked whether he was leaving for good.

The pain in her eyes. Her bottom lip that she worried between her teeth.

Won’t you kiss me goodbye? Will we see each other again?

 And his silence, his hardened silence and remoteness.

Because he had called Heimdall, and Heimdall sent Thor. And he couldn’t show this to Thor. His weakness. His feelings. He couldn’t risk being mocked by his brother. Whatever Thor did, he always won Odin’s approval, whereas he had to prove himself worthy. His fondness for a mortal exposed him to a ridicule he wasn’t ready to fight.

A mortal he had mistreated.

His cruel laughter at her desperate attempt to believe that her husband wasn’t dead.

His hand wrapped around her throat. You shall show reverence from now on.

And she had. Offering him clothes. Offering him a shelter in her house. Offering him her body. Her body and more.

Let us live, and let us love.

Were these words totally empty as he spoke them to her?

This was a question he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

Another dream.

He was sitting in the bottom of a langskip, his hands tied in his back, his knees bent, and Ásgeir towered him. He didn’t watch his face, but he knew it was him. The man was catching his breath after beating and kicking him, and Loki was still holding his head low in attempt to protect himself. Blood was dripping from an injured eyebrow. Ásgeir pulled sharply at his hair, his fist tangled in his black mane, and dragged his head backwards.

Loki’s eyes met a decayed face, the flesh bluish and swollen. The lips were gone and devoured by the crabs, baring his teeth in a hideous smile. The eyes were gone too, and Ásgeir watched him with empty sockets through dangling strands of wet red hair.

“How many times did you fuck her?”

Loki didn’t answer, horribly fascinated by the sight of the drowned warrior’s face.

“How many times, eh?”

“She freely gave herself to me”, he managed to croak.

“How many times?”

Ásgeir repeatedly yelled the same question, punching him in the face each time he finished speaking, until Loki heard his nose and teeth break.

And then, he wasn’t in the boat anymore, even though he was still tied up and on his knees. Blood dripped from his face and made small splashes on the ground. On the tiled floor. Tiled with gold. His eyelids fluttered and he lifted his head with great effort. Odin was sitting on his throne, Gungnir in his right and, darting his only eye upon him.

“How dared you, Loki?”

What was he saying?

He kept silent under Odin’s glare, unable to say anything.

“You know I forbid it long ago. We are not to commit with mortals. We are to rule them as their gods.”

“She worships me.”

“Nonsense. No one worships chaos. You’re not worthy of it.”

Pain squeezed his lungs and shoulders. He couldn’t breathe anymore through his constricted throat. And then, a sob. And another. And again. He didn’t think he could cry. He never cried as a child. Why now?

A loud, thunderous laughter echoed in his ears.

Through his tears, he could see Thor, sitting next to the Allfather, laughing so hard he clapped his thighs with his massive hands.

“Really, Father, can you imagine something more ridiculous than this?”

The Warriors Three were there, too, Fandral and Volstagg nudging each other through their bursts of laughter, Hogun glaring at him with disgust.

And Mother. Oh, Mother watched him too. She didn’t laugh, though. She wasn’t giving him a repelled look, no. What was glinting in her beautiful eyes was far worse than disgust.

Pity.

That was what he read.

He let his head hang down, not wanting to see her anymore.

Darkness.

After an indefinite, blessed period of absolute oblivion, the dreams came back.

Eyð was standing before him, stark naked, her mane of burnt gold flowing on her shoulders and down to her waist. Behind her was the witch’s daughter, naked as well. A pretty girl with dark curls and striking blue eyes. He couldn’t remember her name. Did he ever know it? It didn’t matter anymore.

Eyð came next to him with small, cautious steps and took his hand in hers. He stared at her, unable to tear his eyes off of her.

“Where have you been?” she whispered with a shy smile.

He opened his lips to say something, but no sound came. Lifting her hands, she cupped his face to bring him to her face and kissed him.

Oh, her lips.

Sweet and fresh as water, and he certainly was thirsty.

He circled her supple body as he kissed her, and she pressed herself against him as if to melt in his arms.

Oh, his little mistress, always so eager to please him and love him.

Another pair of hands were on him, caressing him, stripping him of his shirt, and soon the witch’s daughter brought her lips to his. Her kiss was different – she smelled of fresh grass and tasted of honey. Both their hands on him made his skin react, his skin prickling in pleasure, his cock hardening. The girl slipped a hand inside his breeches and wrapped her hand around him, stroking firmly, making him hiss. As he pushed a finger between Eyð’s labia, ready to lose his mind, a sharp click near his ear made him jolt.

Something cold and hard was on his skin and his hand shot to it.

The collar. The damn collar, around his neck.

“It suits you”, Eyð said.

“You betrayed us. You deserve it”, added the girl.

He yelled in despair.

Soft voices near his head.

Something wet and fresh wiping his face, moisturising his lips.

Light fingers tracing his brows.

A kiss on his cheek.

“Oh, my poor boy. What have you been through?”

Mother’s voice, and Mother’s perfume.

Mother whom he had missed so much was finally here with him. It must be another of his dreams, and it would soon turn into a nightmare.

But it didn’t.

He cracked an eye open, and Mother smiled to him. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding one of his hands.

“Hello”, she whispered.

“Hello, Mother”, he croaked back, swallowing with difficulty, trying to wet his parched lips with his tongue, in vain.

He tried to sit, but Eir, who was standing on the other side of the narrow bed of the healing quarters, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You are still very weak, Prince. You had a strong fever.”

It wasn’t any surprising news, given the nightmares he’d experienced.

“This Miðgardian magic was unexpectedly potent.”

“Mmmh.”

Yes, that he knew.

“I suspect you exhausted yourself before you had to fight those warriors. Or else your seiðr should have protected you from their blades.”

He nodded slowly.

That, he knew too. And she had warned him, though he didn’t want to listen to her.

She knew. She always knew what was best for him.

And feeling so dependant made him weak.

No.

His feelings made him weak.

That was why this affair must be put to an end. Because he was ridiculously infatuated with the girl, because Odin would never tolerate it. But the mere idea of it sent a tearing pain through his chest, and he surprised himself rubbing his sternum to ease the feeling.

“Loki, are you alright?”

He gave Mother a fond smile.

“Yes, Mother. Perfectly fine.”

She smiled too, but he could tell that she could see through his lies.

Loki stayed one more day in the healing quarters, as Eir wouldn’t let him out and Mother kept casting sleeping spells upon him. But sleep didn’t allow him to rest, and after other awful dreams that let him spent and sweaty on his cot, he was woken by fresh water on his forehead and in his hair.

As he regained consciousness, his ears were assaulted by the incessant prattle of three voices.

It’s not his end.

It could be, though.

But what path will he choose?

He’s already made unredeemable mistakes.

Redeemable.

Guilt is his load.

Guilt, and destruction.

Or creation.

By the roots of Yggdrasil, could it be possible?

Do you feel it too?

Do you?

His heart of ice is –

Not icy anymore.

Even if he hadn’t ever met them, he knew there were only three people who kept bickering like this.

“Help me, will you?”

Mother’s voice. Two pairs of hands seized him under the arms and dragged him in fresh water.

He was guessing what they were doing to him, but his eyelids felt heavy, so heavy… if he cracked an eye open, though, he could see large boughs covered in a lush foliage above his head. A tree. A very tall one. A heavy piece of fabric hanging on a transversal bough. Four feminine frames, with long hair dangling on their shoulders.

He knew where he was.

Urðarbrunnr. Urð’s well, in Asgard, where the three Nornir spun, weaved and cut the destinies of gods and men.

Why did Mother bring him here? Was he in such a bad state, that he needed a bath in the powerful spring?

The cool water was doing him good, indeed, and he already felt its salutary effects on his body. He didn’t feel so weak within minutes, and soon was able to fully open his eyes.

“Ah, here you are, boy”, croaked an old woman, so old her eyes were white and opaque, and her face was thin and dry like ageless parchment. Her sparse, long, white hair hung before her features. Urð, the Past, wearing colourless, threadbare rags. She was sitting on a stool before an enormous loom directly built from the tree, on which she was weaving a wide fabric made of many-coloured threads. She was intertwining the warp and shed threads while her sister, a splendid goddess with a flowing copper mane and lush curves that were complimented by a beautiful dress of pink silk, tightened the fabric with a comb. He knew at once what he was staring at, even if he saw it for the first time, not having bothered to visit the Three before.

The Tapestry of Destiny.

“It is a great privilege to be allowed to bath in our well”, said her sister, her voice rich and warm.

“He already knows it, Verdandi”, chirped the third one, a little girl whose incisors were missing. A timeless wisdom was to be read in her clear eyes, that belied her childish features and high-pitched babbling. Skuld, the Future.

Loki took a sharp inhale and sat straight. Now was not the time to slouch and show weakness. He needed them to prolong the thread of his life. Skuld giggled, tugging at the collar of her simple white dress before getting back to her distaff. He gave them a deep nod as a respectful greeting.

“I can’t express how grateful I am, my Ladies”, he began.

“Oh, hush, god of Lies”, said Verdandi, the Present, with a crystalline laughter. “We did it for Frigga.”

“And because you have to fulfil the prophecy”, Skuld added.

He nodded in agreement. The prophecy. He had a role to play in Ragnarok. A role he didn’t know of yet, but who cared? He would discover it soon enough.

“I was worried about you”, said Mother, standing behind the Nornir. Even the Allmother knew the Three had precedence.

“Well, thank you, Mother. I do feel better now.”

He stood, water running down his body and from his clothes, and Verdandi gave him a playful wink he chose to ignore. He was focusing upon the immense loom on which this old hag of Urð was weaving. There was no pattern to be distinguished apart from small diamonds, all the threads of lives being tightly woven together, but he knew the three goddesses could find any life in the intricate fabric that fell into heavy folds at the feet of the goddesses.

The thread of his life was somewhere in it, even though he couldn’t recognize it.

“Come closer, if you wish”, said Verdandi, carefully carressing the threads that Urð was weaving. “Have a look.”

“No, thank you, my Lady. Certain things must remain concealed.”

“If you say so.”

“For now”, chirped Skuld. “We will see you again, god of Lies.”

Loki gave a light shook of his head.

“I’d hate to disappoint you, my Lady, but I have no intention of visiting any soon.”

“That he says”, croaked Urð with a short, raucous laughter that made her sound like a crow.

“Shh”, chided Verdandi. “It’s his truth for now.”

Loki internally rolled his eyes, exasperated by the incessant nattering of the Three, but gave a short bow all the same. He knew he’d better not mess with them.

“See you soon”, chittered again Skuld, chewing on a strand of her long hair as he took Mother’s arm and walked away.

Chapter Text

Silence seizes a cluttered room
Light is shed not a breath too soon
Darkness rises in all you do
Standing and drawn across the room
Spatial movements are butterflies
Shadows scatter without a fire

Choir of Young Believers, “Hollow Talk”

XXX.

Two days after Loki left, six langskip entered the cove, led by Tórmoður’s boat. A large fleet indeed. Eyð’s brother likely didn’t appreciate his warriors being killed and their bodies returned, and certainly intended to seize her þræll. Leysingi. God. Who, in any case, wasn’t here anymore. Who left with his godly brother right after her own brother sent warriors to try and kill him, which failed quite spectacularly.

That was certainly why Tórmoður came back with an entire army.

She was churning butter, and didn’t stop her task on his account, not even bothering to greet him as he presented at the door of the dairy, not caring that she wore men’s clothes to do womanly tasks.

“It’s all useless, you know. This display” she panted, strongly beating the cream.

“Why so?”

“He’s not here anymore.”

“Really? And where is he?”

“Gone.”

It was the first time she spoke of him, careful as she was to avoid to even think of him, not to torture herself unnecessarily after what he said.

And after he kept silent when she needed answers.

Will we see each other again?

Her slaves knew when not to talk about something – or someone. Even Orla had kept her sharp tongue silent about him after Eyð said Ormstunga’d better be never spoken of. And in this name – Ormstunga, Snake-tongue – she’d put so much loathe and ire that everything about him was now hidden under a heavy blanket of uneasy silence. She didn’t weep upon him. He didn’t deserve it, the Master Liar.

Tórmoður crossed his arms on his large chest.

“Is it a manner to mean he’s dead?”

“No. He just went away.”

He wasn’t dead, was he? After all, he was injured, and Miðgardian weapons shouldn’t have been able to wound him. She shouldn’t think of him. Shouldn’t think at all. And then, in spite of all her precautions, she felt it. The strong claws of pain squeezing her heart. She could tell herself that she hated him for abandoning her, for the words he said before he summoned the Watcher. But no, she didn’t, couldn’t, and it hurt.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He just left.”

Her brother grunted.

“I find it difficult to believe. He seemed quite smitten. And certainly jealous.”

She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. She didn’t want to think of the last time she met her brother. Of Loki’s jealousy. Of his hand at the back of her neck, laying claim for Tórmoður and Eyvind to see. Of the crisis they overcame next, her words of love, his fredom, all for what? For what, save his cruel ingratitude?

“He left.”

“How?”

He watched her with narrowed eyes, his perfectly calm face unable to hide his suspicions.

“I don’t know how. I can’t understand how.”

Could she say it? He was there, and the next moment he wasn’t anymore. He went away with a flash of light and a loud crack. Just like if swallowed by a rainbow.

“You’re hiding things from me.”

Yes, she was. But what could she say? She only grunted, making a sound that could mean either yes or no.

“Who is he?”

She scoffed bitterly and shook her head.

The butter was ready. The liquid sound coming from under the wooden lid told her so. She opened the churn, picked the butter and poured the buttermilk in a wooden pitcher, keeping silent, turning her back to him, letting him waiting. She didn’t want to talk about anything that had to see with him, anyway.

Tórmoður let her finish and wipe her hands on her apron, and repeated his question. She kept silent again, and strong hands grabbed her shoulders to make her spin. She immediately stiffened with a gasp.

“Who is he?” he shouted, spitting in her face, positively furious.

“Can’t you guess?” she hissed. “Your boat went back with its gruesome load, didn’t it? Did Dagga’s nephew say nothing?”

Tórmoður took several deep breaths to calm himself, and released his grip.

“The boy said nonsense. He was mad with terror. Tell me now: who is he?”

“The boy spoke the truth, and you shouldn’t have angered him. When he comes back, I don’t give much for your life.”

She said when to anger him, but she thought if.

A sharp slap hit her cheek, making her head jerk aside. She closed her eyes under the stinging pain, and spat on the pebbled ground. The inside of her cheek was cut and bled. Well, at least, this was a concrete, physical pain, something easier to deal with. She wiped her mouth with the cuff of her tunic.

“You whore”, he grunted.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps not. The deal she first made with the dark god didn’t involve giving herself to him. Not until she offered herself during the longest night of the year.

“Who am I to deny a god?” she asked with as many innocence as she could.

“Nonsense. The gods don’t commit with us.”

Now he was right, and she felt both her face blanch and her heart squeeze painfully.

Tórmoður noticed her expression, for he tilted his head on one side and spoke with a sickening false gentleness.

“Oh, he didn’t want to commit, then. Did you fail to entertain him at last?”

Oh, how his word painfully echoed her last question. Am I boring? And the even more painful answer. You’re a mortal. Abandoning all common sense and letting her anger out, Eyð leaped on him with a furious screech, aiming to scratch his face and blind him with her nails. But he was faster and stronger, and quickly controlled her, twisting an arm in her back, his other hand firmly gripping her hair, and she let another cry, both from pain and frustration.

“I must concede that this haughty prince of yours is a very talented fighter. But I also do believe that the boy had a lot of luck with good winds and strong currents to sail his way back.”

His breath on her ear and cheek felt repellent, and she turned her head to avoid it.

“What about the corpses?” she groaned. “Could one man have carried and piled eleven dead warriors?”

“You could have helped him. They’re dead anyway, and in Valhalla, as much as I know.”

He released her, pushing her outside, and stood still behind her, breathing calmly as if nothing had occurred. She was panting heavily, and rubbed her wrung wrist, watching him with hatred.

“Well then, there’s nothing left keeping me here, I reckon”, he said in a detached tone, turning his gaze to the cove and the fleet. “When we come back from pillaging Alba, I shall take you to Árnafjøður, and settle on an arrangement with Eyvind.”

***

Spring was always a very busy season. Thanks to the gods – except for one – Eyð had enough work to keep her mind away from her thoughts during the days, and collapsed, exhausted, to sleep during dreamless nights, alone in her bed.

In the first days, she often looked at the stars, searching for answers. A few times, when pain and sorrow were too heavy, she yelled at the skies. Not bellowing curses or imprecations, no. Just an unarticulated yell that carried her outpouring emotions.

After the ewes yeaned, she kept them a few weeks in the shed until spring fully came and the snow melted. Ronan and Kórmakur helped her to cut the lamb’s ears with her marker for her island might be isolated, but lambs thieves weren’t unheard of.

She dug the small garden while Ronan maintained the dry masonry walls, and sowed vegetables. Cabbages, carrots, turnips, parsnips. Until they would be ready to eat, the household would eat angelica roots and sorrel, and what was left of the grain and dried meat after winter.

And in what time she had left, she spun, dyed and weaved more wool than she did since Ásgeir’s death. Because focusing on the repetitive movement of the shuttle and combing the threads was soothingly numbing her mind.

She didn’t want to overthink. Didn’t want to think at all. About so much things. About so many people. And so she just lived one day after another, not making any plans, indifferent to anything but her son.

Days went on, becoming weeks, then months. The puffins returned at the beginning of summer, but Loki didn’t. She hunted the birds and harvested their eggs, nevertheless.

 And on a bright sunny morning of the month of Tvimánuður, as little Ásgeir was almost completing his first year and she was watching him trying to stand on his feet, Tórmoður came back, his ships entering the cove.

She immediately knew what it meant. He was about to sell her to Eyvind, and there was nothing she could do. Loki never came for her. He had likely abandoned her. And if the god himself had acknowledged that the man Tórmoður had chosen for her was decent, what could she do but resign herself? Hadn’t she promised to do what was expected from her? Hadn’t she noticed, these past months, how difficult it was to manage the farm without a support?

She gathered a few belongings and silently followed her brother, along with Melkorka and the children. Two young men stayed in their place, to do the farm work.

Tórmoður allowed her to live in a small house not far from the langhallr. It had only one room, and she lived there with her slave and the two babies, the four of them sleeping together in the same bed, sharing comfort and warmth at night.

But Eyð wasn’t as busy here in Árnafjørður as she was home, and didn’t tire herself enough. Her sleep was lighter. And with it came dreams.

Dreams of slaughtered men and bloody corpses laying in the long grass.

Confused dreams of black hair and whispers.

Dreams of him, clear enough to wake her up with her brow covered in cold sweat, or other dreams torturing her with pleasure. Those dreams she feared the most, for they left her unsatisfied and panting in her bed. She never pleasured herself to find relief, for it would have meant that she surrendered to the desire that she had of him, to the desire that consumed her, and she surely didn’t want to admit that she still longed for him, for the liar had abandoned her. Instead, she got out of bed, and drank fresh water, and sat beside the fire, spinning wool or nålbinding until she felt tired enough to get back to sleep.

She helped with the gathering and the shearing of sheep, which provided a welcome distraction and physical fatigue.

Carding and spinning the wool was a long and tiresome work, but she was grateful that it once again helped her to numb her thoughts. They didn’t wash the wool for they didn’t degrease it, as felted vadmel made of undegreased wool was as warm as it was waterproof. Until late at night, she spun wool, expertly rolling a very thin thread between her fingers, and Dagga would often look at her fine work with envy.

She weaved and dyed woollen fabric as well, using onion peels, heather and tansy for various shades of yellow, sorrel and knapweed for green, lichens for grey. She made tests with wood chips and bark remnants, which were abundant near the harbour, where men fixed the boats after the raids. To a merchant, she bought madder roots that would give a nice red. She intended to sew herself a new dress, and a fine one at that. She would wear it for the incoming Jólablot, since she’d rather burn the clothes she wore when Loki shared her bed than wear them ever again. She spun a very fine thread to weave, and dyed it with much care, letting it simmer in a copper caldron, then letting it cool in the liquid overnight. And on the following morning, she went out to hang the red skeins in the wind. She was quite pleased with her work, and as she took a step back to have a good look at the colour, a smooth voice spoke from behind her.

“Hello, Eyð.”

She spun on her heels, feeling the blood drain from her face.

Eyvind.

He was standing there, next to Tórmoður, their hair whipped by the wind. The two men staring at her.

Unable to speak, she took a step back on instinct.

“Don’t be afraid”, he said lowly. “I don’t wish you harm.”

Liar.

How could she trust him? Wasn’t he here to discuss the sum of money he’d have to pay to bring her back to his farm and fuck her legally?

She set her gaze on the grass to avoid looking at him. At them.

“The haughty one isn’t there anymore, moreover”, muttered Tórmoður.

Eyvind cleared his throat.

“She doesn’t look enraptured at seeing me all the same. Forget about it.”

“She’ll do as she’s told. Won’t you, now, sister?”

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to control a wave of nausea.

“If can’t avoid it.”

“Well, you can’t”, he sighed.

“What about my son’s legacy?”

“I’ll entrust it to one of my men until your son comes of age.”

The conversation was ended. That was all. She kept her lips shut, her eyes to the ground. She felt tired, so tired. She didn’t feel the energy to struggle anymore.

“It’s settled, then. Come, Eyvind. Dagga makes the most delicious skyr.”

She rolled her neck to ease her cramped muscles, and let a heavy sigh.

Don’t think.

She wasn’t done with the wool yet. More skeins required her attention. This was something to keep her mind focused on. She swallowed heavily and made her way to the house.

When she went to pick the dried skeins of wool, later that day, a few minutes before sunset, a rustle of fabric startled her.

It was Eyvind, uncrossing his arms and standing tall, tugging on his shirt to make it fit nicely. She gave him an indifferent look and resumed her walking. He followed her, though.

“Eyð, may I talk to you?”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“Your lover, I wonder why he left. Isn’t it very sudden?”

She stopped and spun so abruptly he almost ran into her, and nearly caught her. But the look she gave him made him change his mind, and his hands stopped in mid-air, the fingers wide open in a gesture of good-will.

“My brother sent twelve warriors to kill him. You know that. Twelve, and only one was spared, because I asked him to.”

He inhaled sharply.

“They tell tales about that day. About the name he called himself.”

Ah, of course.

She shook her head, reluctant to talk about him.

“Tell me. His true name isn’t Hveðrungr, is it?”

“This marriage is not possible, no matter how insistent you might be.”

“You didn’t answer.”

She sighed heavily. He stepped back, letting her some space.

“Hveðrungr is one of my lover’s many names. I am his, however he left me for now, and he is very jealous.”

And she wasn’t lying, was she? There will be no room for another. These were his exact words, and she agreed to his terms.

Eyvind’s eyes quickly shone with cleverness, and the man opened his mouth to speak, only to change his mind and study her with keen eyes. She liked his cleverness. Maybe, in other circumstances… He gave an uneasy nod and swallowed hard.

“I’ve been touched by a god. You know what it means.”

“I understand. Be sure I won’t importunate you anymore.”

Eyð nodded graciously and turned to make her way to her task.

“However, can I tell that I appreciate you? Should you be in need of a friend – or at least of a support – your brother is a brave chieftain, but the way he treated you made me uncomfortable.”

“I was quite uncomfortable, too.”

He smiled in a bitter, helpless, but also apologetic manner.

“You were so much worse than uncomfortable, that day.”

She was, indeed. A bitter taste rose in her mouth at the memory of the atrocious meeting with her brother. Eyvind’s words were no consolation, but still, she felt vaguely grateful that he spoke them, that he acknowledged the ordeal she had been thrown into.

“And so, your lover – the god – is he good to you?”

He was, before he left. Before he spoke with such cruelty her heart bled at the mere thought of that day.

Do not dwell in such thoughts, Ey ð .

“His name is Loki”, she breathed in a conniving manner, and she couldn’t hold back a smile at seeing Eyvind’s pale features grow even paler. “Yes, to me, he is gentle and caring. But be sure I’ve seen him in a temper. No one will want to bring his wrath upon them. He can be cruel and merciless. When he comes back, I can’t figure how my brother could survive him”, she added almost casually.

When he comes back, she said, all the while knowing deep inside that he wouldn’t come back for her. How could she have become such a talented liar? Because you were taught by the most talented teacher, she thought bitterly.

The man watched her with keen, piercing eyes and smiled in amusement.

“There’s no use trying to intimidate me, you know. I won’t do anything to harm you, nor to overstep my prerogatives. So I’m not at risk.”

She laughed at his words.

“Really? Did your negotiations go well? How much did my brother ask for me?”

He took a deep breath.

“Listen, Eyð –“ he hesitated. “Let’s pretend we’re getting to know each other, just to placate your brother.”

It was like cold water splashed in her face. Did he actually think of marrying her, just after she thought she managed to deter him?

“I can be the one scheming, too”, he whispered, winking like an amused conspirator. “Let us pretend. Let us abuse him with a sham betrothal. To protect you from a less delicate suitor.”

He straightened and cleared his throat.

“Unless you prefer Ólafur, that is.”

“Oh, no. No. Thank you for your offer, Eyvind.”T

He chuckled, his eyes still scrutinizing her face.

“Scheming and pretending, nothing more”, he repeated to reassure her.

“Nothing more. And I’ll shelter you from Loki’s wrath, when he returns.”

He shrugged.

“Should I be killed by a god, I’d consider the Nornir decided it for me. It couldn’t be worse than suffering a long illness.”

She felt confused, though. Should she trust the man? He seemed to be honest, but, what if he had second thoughts? What if he hid his true intentions? Everyone seemed to be plotting and lying, around her. Loki and Tórmoður surely had lied and dissimulated their true thoughts, so why would he act differently? She’d been too naïve, and men had taken advantage of her youth. There might be little she could do, but at least she wouldn’t be a fool anymore.

He smiled to her, warm and friendly, and extended his right hand.

“Do you agree? Let’s shake hands, then.”

Chapter Text

Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering what you had
And what you lost
And what you had
And what you lost

Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”

XXXI.

A banquet was held in the honor of Loki’s return.

Another pretence, for all he knew. 

The rumour had it that he had been captured by an Elven witch disguised in the form of a mortal, and that he had been able to free himself and kill her just before Thor went on Miðgard to rescue him.

Lies.

They should have amused him, and yet they didn’t.

He could see past the cruel irony of the story spread in the palace. For he had been kept by a mortal indeed, and his dreams – nightmares – sometimes lured him with her death. He’d dreamt of her, broken-hearted, yelling curses towards the skies. Throwing herself off of a cliff. Setting fire to her barns. Dreams of destruction that would never fail to keep him awake for the rest of the night.

And so, night after night, he prevented himself from falling asleep. Better long, lonely nights of insomnia than those horrid dreams.

For now, he was sitting at the high table, at the left of Mother, a dull headache pounding at his temples.

He hadn’t seen her in days. He hadn’t seen Thor nor Odin, either, for he avoided any company and didn’t dine with them at night. He barely dine at all, in fact, for food tasted like ashes in his mouth. He haunted the library in search of some bribes of knowledge about the magic that had enslaved him, and found none. He haunted Mother’s gardens at night, grateful that the lush rose bushes reminded him nothing of the long grass of Svínoy. He spent hours in the astronomy tower, studying the stars, carefully avoiding to look towards Miðgard.

But he also spent hours at the edge of Asgard, absently staring at the void, wondering how it could match his inner hollowness so well.

“You look tired”, said Mother’s soft voice, along with a soft brush of her hand on his wrist.

He gave her a small, fake smile.

“Do you still have bad dreams?”

He kept his stare on his plate, and cleared his throat instead of answering. The sight of the amount of venison and vegetables piled in it was enough to make his stomach protest. He grabbed his cup, and swallowed a large gulp of wine instead.

“Perhaps you should go and pay another visit to the Three.”

“Thank you, Mother”, he cut in a tone that admitted no interference.

He heard her sad sigh, and struggled not to close his eyes in self-disgust.

He drank more wine. The dark red liquid was good, strong, and tannic, just as he liked. He already knew it would be his sole food for the night.

***

Dark blond hair. Almost like burnt gold.

The woman was alluring, but she wasn’t her.

She was enthusiastic, though.

But as soon as she kissed him, he knew she wouldn’t do. She didn’t kiss him the way she did, she didn’t taste like her. She didn’t smell like her.

In his state of drunkenness, he made her spin and pushed her front against a column, in a dark corridor. If he only saw her hair, perhaps he could pretend he was with her.

With trembling hands, he hitched her skirts high, revealing the pale skin of her thighs and buttocks. Even there, she didn’t look like her, and he closed his eyes to avoid the sight of this flesh.

As he slipped a finger inside her, her moan sounded so strange, so forced, so feigned that he withdrew and quickly wiped his hand on her dress. The woman turned, surprise and incomprehension in her eyes.

“I changed my mind”, he snapped. “You’re not the one I’m looking for.”

Her glare and low hiss didn’t amuse him, didn’t irritate him either. He watched her like he would have a repellent insect, and she froze in fear apart from a loud, choked gulp. With a disgusted sniff, he turned and strode to the safe retreat of his rooms.

***

“You look sad, Brother.”

Loki rolled his eyes. The terrace at the top of astronomy tower, that he thought to be a quiet, secluded place, seemed to be filled with the imposing presence of the God of Thunder. He had been sitting here for hours, stripped of his princely ornaments, only wearing a pair of black trousers and a simple linen tunic. Almost like the clothes he wore on Miðgard. Simple, practical clothes that he had become accustomed to.

“Is it because of the mortal?”

“Do not speak of her”, he purred, as sweet and ominous as he could, not willing to hear about her in his brother’s mouth. The oaf lacked feeling, lacked subtlety, lacked anything that could placate him for now.

Thor, of course, didn’t caught the veiled threat – it had once more been too subtle for him – and wasn’t deterred by his tone.

“A pretty girl.”

“Thor. I’m warning you.”

His brother pursed his lips and lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence.

“As you wish.”

Stiffening a sigh, Loki turned away.

“But still, you look so sad. I’d hoped you’d rejoice in coming back, but I barely recognize my own brother.”

Loki lowered his eyes. He barely recognized himself too. Starving himself, depriving himself of sleep, failing to master the dull, permanent ache throbbing at the pit of his stomach.

“You look like a –“

Thor didn’t finish his phrase, suspending his words in hope for catching his brother’s attention, and Loki knew he was doing a huge mistake as he turned his gaze to him.

“ – a lovelorn puppy.”

His fist collided with the God of Thunder’s jaw. Maybe a good brawl could ease his frustration.

***

Maybe this was the book he had been looking for, at last.

Hidden in the back of the farthest shelf of the library, long-forgotten by anyone, a book about Miðgardian emotional magic. A rotten book about magical restraints had proved of no use, but maybe, maybe, with a little bit of luck –

Sitting at his desk, the book open in front of him, Loki took a notebook and a quill, already thrilled by the few words he had caught thumbing through the grimoire.

Virgin blood.

Incantations chanted in fury.

How to bind a demon. A demon, indeed?

 “You didn’t touch your plate.”

He had been well absorbed in his reading and jolted at Mother’s voice.

“I didn’t hear you coming”, he said apologetically, standing and turning to greet her.

She was politely waiting for his invitation, a few steps into the room, holding something folded onto her extended hands. Beautiful, gracious and regal as ever.

Loki went to kiss her on the cheek, walked past her and closed the door.

“Please, have a sit.”

He didn’t wish for company, but he couldn’t rebuke the Allmother. His mother. The only person who loved him unconditionally – the only one now that he had been so cruel – he shook his head to chase this thought away.

Mother took place on a couch next to his favourite armchair and as he sat in front of her, he gave a good look at what now rested on her knees.

A dark green garment, with yellow embroideries at the neck.

He recognized it at once.

“You were wearing this shirt when you came back. I had it cleaned, and am bringing it back to you.”

“Thank you, Mother. But you shouldn’t have bothered with it, and have it sent back by a maid.”

She smiled.

“You know I’m sometimes curious to a fault.”

It was wrong. She knew – saw – so much things she didn’t need gossiping nor asking.

“I’ve never seen such a work. Where did you buy this shirt, my dear boy?”

“It’s a gift.”

“Oh.”

He let a heavy sigh.

“You’ll learn it one way or another. The woman who held me captive made this shirt as an offering to a god.”

“Oh, I see. And?”

He swallowed and shook his head.

“That’s it.”

She gave him a warm smile.

“Please, Loki. I won’t be satisfied unless you give me more details.”

About what?

He cleared his throat.

“She weaved the fabric, dyed it with what I believe is sorrel, sewed and embroidered the cloth. And gave it to me one night.”

Mother smiled again, tilting her head on one side.

“Why did she make this offering when she was keeping you in thraldom?”

He shifted his gaze, setting it on the armrest, keeping silent, remembering that evening.

She, standing before him at a respectful distance, presenting the folded garment with a bow. The slight shaking of her voice and her short breath as she spoke. I beg you to accept it in exchange of your protection for my son and me. The smug satisfaction of both seeing her flee in fear and having a fresh shirt.

“She asked for protection, and I agreed.”

“Was it the nature of your relationship? Protection?”

There was no way avoiding Mother’s questions.

“It was, in the beginning. I protected her from her husband’s warriors. And from herself, as she had very annoying tendencies to endanger herself, at the time she was lost in her grief.”

“Grief?”

“Her husband died short after he bought me to the witch.”

She nodded.

“Did she attempt to kill herself?”

“Not consciously, no. but she kept wandering to dangerous places – the cliffs, a shore where a large seal-bull was – and she was sad. She was always so sad.”

What about now? Was she sad after he left? Was she bitter? Mad at him?

“And after?”

“We – I believe we became friends. But – I’m not good at making friends, as you know, so I couldn’t really say. And later, we became lovers.”

“Lovers? Really? What does the word mean for you?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“It means that we had physical interactions, obviously. Sex, that is to say.”

“Oh well, I expected no less from you, darling”, she said with mirth. “But physical interactions and feelings are different things, aren’t they?”

Loki bit the inside of his cheek, once again looking at the armrest.

“Because ‘lover’ comes from ‘love’, Loki.”

 Love. He didn’t want to explore these memories. They were too painful, and brought too much guilt. And guilt was already a heavy load, even when he managed to keep his feelings and memories at bay. Won’t you kiss me goodbye?

He was shaken out of his daydreaming by Mother’s warm hand wrapping his own.

“Because love is powerful. You know it first-hand, don’t you darling?”

Indeed. Without her love, he would still be in thraldom, his powers impeached by the collar built in wrath and resent.

“Mother, I –“

He choked and stood, turning his back to her. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. To say what? That he, the god of Chaos, was good at nothing but destroying what was best? That his heartlessness was unbearable, even to him? That his existence had no purpose now that she was so far away? That she must likely hate him after the way he treated her? The pain in his chest intensified, and he rubbed his sternum, in vain. It soon became nearly intolerable, and all he could do was clutching at his shirt and whine pathetically as Mother’s hands set on his shoulders for comfort.

“How comes it’s so painful?” he breathed.

“Because, as I just said, love is a powerful feeling.”

He scoffed, and tightened his fingers over the fabric of his shirt as a sharp squeeze around his heart made him gasp.

“Ridiculous, I’m not in love. I’ve never been.”

“If you’re saying so”, she answered in a light tone. “Quite a pretty girl, as much as I’ve heard.”

“Oh, please”, he managed to grunt.

“I only have one more question, Loki.”

His shoulders sagged in defeat. Mother was indomitable. Her strong will mixed with softness made her a redoubtable diplomat.

“Why aren’t you with her?”

Mother didn’t leave until he gave her answers. Until he confessed his cruelty to her, his selfish worries about his reputation, his childish fear of being mocked by Thor about his love affair with a mortal woman. At this point, he thought her eyes had a wet glint, but he wasn’t sure, as she always mastered herself so perfectly after millennia of practice.

And she gave him a strong, warm embrace that left him with burning eyes and an imaginary lump in his throat, that made him choke.

“Now stop pretending you don’t feel anything and go see Heimdall. He’ll give you news of the girl. Then go back to the Three, have a look at the Tapestry, and do as you see fit.”

“She might loathe me, as much as I know.”

“You’re wiser than that, sweet boy. You know the line between love and loathe can be very thin.”

“Still –“

“Go and make amends.”

***

“Brother, you look wretched.”

“Thor. Thank you as always.”

The God of Thunder gave him a worried look that only made him roll his eyes. For once, yet, he had to concede that his brother wasn’t wrong. He felt wretched, even if he wouldn’t ever admit it.

“Come with me, I’ll take you to Heimdall.”

He had had a conversation with Mother. Of course, they had to stick their noses where they weren’t wanted. But then, a little scheming always pleased him.

“I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do.”

Once again, Thor was right. Heimdall and Loki weren’t precisely on good terms, as the God of Lies and Mischief had developed a talent to conceal himself to the eyes of the Watchman. But Heimdall would tell him about her, as he could see her. Loki rolled his eyes and shook his head in defeat, even if his lip curled a bit.

The Watchman didn’t move on their account, his imperturbable stare fixed on the universe.

“She’s been waiting for you, you know. Even if she won’t admit it.”

“How long has it been for her?”

“Half a year. Winter has come again. Her child can walk.”

Half a year, when he had spent less than three weeks in Asgard. There again. The pain in his chest, tearing between his lungs. He could almost envision the scene. Little Ásgeir, standing on wobbly legs, extending his arms to his mother with a bright grin. She, smiling too, bending to pick the child. Loki asked the question that had been lingering in his mind for days.

“How is she?”

“Her mood shifts from melancholic to sorrowful.”

“She might hate me.”

Heimdall turned his undecipherable eyes to him, and he immediately felt even more ill-at-ease, if it was possible.

“You don’t usually care so much about what people think of you.”

Well, he did, in this case, but kept silent.

“She doesn’t”, continued Heimdall. “But she’s wrathful, too, even if she doesn’t yell at the sky anymore.”

His heart sunk. She yelled at the sky. Just like the time Ólafur came for his despicable wedding proposal. Memories of that day came very vivid to his mind. She, rushing out of the house, gasping for air. The echoes of her shouts over the cliffs. Her body lying in the long grass, numbed by exhaustion. That day, she felt the magic in his collar. That day, they started to get to know each other. He didn’t mind that much about her, back at that time. And now, she broke again. He made her break again, and thus prove truly unworthy of her. How much pain did he inflict to her? Was there no end to his ruthlessness?

Thor’s mighty laughter boomed at his side.

“Ah, thank you, Heimdall. Come now, Brother. Don’t make this face! You’ve heard the Watchman : she doesn’t hate you!” he exclaimed with a loud clap between Loki’s shoulder blades, one that he was sure could have made him spit a lung out.

***

“Can I have a look, my Lady?”

Verdandi smiled gracefully and extended her hand.

“Of course. Be my guest.”

He had been sure not to come again. And yet, thanks to Mother’s and Thor’s scheming, he was there again, under the Great Tree. Thor gave a deep bow and he mimicked him, reluctant as he was. Mother was already there when they came, having tea with the three goddesses, and stood to greet him. He kissed her cheek, focusing on her, not listening to the over-exhausting hushed prattling of the Three, refusing to listen to what little hope tried to take seed in the back of his mind.

I told you he’d come.

Oh, please, don’t be ever so full of yourself.

Don’t you think he looks thinner?

And sadder.

Woeful.

Poor boy.

Lovesick.

Who could have guessed?

Not even you, Skuld.

Loki slowly, cautiously approached the Great Loom in respect, and examined the intertwined threads. The cloth was immense, and he felt lost at first, not knowing where to look, his eyes roaming haphazardly in search of a particular thread. The Three gathered around him, Verdandi’s elbow brushing his own, Urð leaning on his for support, Skuld sneaking between them to come closer.

“Where am I?” he finally dared to ask in a whisper.

Urð shot him a wide grin that showed her toothless gums and picked a thread between two long, yellowish nails.

“This thread. This is your life. Twisted, tangled and complicated enough for us to unknot.”

It was a green so dark it almost seemed black, of course, and speckles of gold ran through it. It seemed to be made of diverse material – wool, leather, metal, linen, and something so dark it could only be shadow itself. Pointing his forefinger, he touched the thread and followed it.

“Where am I now?” he asked again.

Verdandi vaguely pointed a spot, above a knot where his thread was tangled with another one, a white one, made of wool.

He looked down.

Two threads, knotted and knitted together.

He swallowed hard, distinctively feeling the masculine lump of his throat bobbling with difficulty, and clenched his jaw hard enough to grit his teeth.

This woollen thread, this white, pure life could only be –

Her thread. Her life.

A soft hand laid on his upper arm as Mother went in his back, her gaze above his shoulder. Skuld pocked at his wrist, lightly, almost shyly.

“They can still be weaved together, you know. It’s up to you”, she chirped in her innocent manner.

Could they, really? Would she take him back? Would she forgive him? Could there be any forgiveness at all for him?

He kept silent, feeling at a loss for words, his mind blank under the strong turmoil of emotions within him.

“Odin would never allow it”, he finally muttered.

“Don’t be so sure, my dear boy. There could be a way.”

He shook his head.

“Odin would have her killed, to prevent this dalliance. To punish me.”

Mother’s eyes glowed with a warm and cunning glint. She gave him a sly smile and rubbed his arm in reassurance. She was his mother for a reason.

“You called her a priestess, as much as I know. A god’s priest – or priestess – is almost as sacred as their god. They can’t be touched.”

Thor, in turn, spoke in a hushed tone, mirth colouring his voice.

“I wonder how you didn’t think of it yourself, Brother.”

He felt a small hand tugging at his leather doublet, and lowered his eyes to meet Skuld’s ageless ones, so out of place in her childish features.

“So, god of Heartbreak, what do you decide?”

Chapter Text

She’ll take you back
Don’t make believe
You wanna think it through
I’ve loved before, I’ll love again
I know that yours was true

Keren Ann, “Strange Weather”

XXXII.

Winter came again, along with strong winds and a shroud of snow that wrapped the islands. Tórmoður had negotiated her betrothal with Eyvind, and at some moment, Eyð had no choice but to resign herself to what wasn’t anything of a pretence anymore.

Loki wouldn’t come back.

He left her.

Eyvind wasn’t always there, of course. He had to run his own farm on the southeast coast of the island of Eysturoy, in a place called Heiðarnar. It was set in a pleasant moorland – or so he said – at the foot of a mountain that sheltered the buildings from the cold North wind.

A few weeks after their betrothal, short after the first snow, in the beginning of winter, he came back in the guise of a paying a call to his betrothed, and told her he’d changed his mind and now truly wanted to wed her. He made it clear that, even if he had capable slaves, he needed a mistress for the farm. That he had come to like her, and hoped their relationship could grow beyond friendship and what was just an alliance between their families.

At his words, she had averted her eyes, looking away in disinterest, not listening anymore and willingly numbing herself, which she was easily able to do by now.

Numbness was rather comfortable. It helped her avoiding her acute feelings and errand thoughts. Of course, she sometimes felt with lucidity that it was like some sort of self-mutilation, but the pain wasn’t so sharp when she didn’t think or feel.

During his short sojourning, she let him speak when they spent time together, listened politely – or feigned to. She couldn’t get past the overwhelming feeling that he had betrayed her, too, offering friendship only to change it into marriage. It was probably what was to be expected from men, after all. Loki, Tórmoður, Eyvind. They all used women for their own purposes. Even Ásgeir, for she’d been a prize to him, a reward for his loyalty to the chieftain. And Loki, of course. Didn’t he use her to be freed of the collar, to be freed of thraldom, and regain his godly powers – and with them, his inhuman cruelty?

One night, though, when she happened to think of him, unable to master her thoughts and bury them in some hidden place of her mind, desire tortured her badly and made the contact of the bed-sheet unbearable against her skin. Just like the night she finally decided to give herself to him. Worse, even, because he wasn’t there. That night, she seriously considered sneaking to the langhallr, slipping next to Eyvind and riding him to relieve herself. Perhaps his handsomeness could help making it easy enough.

She didn’t do it though, and stayed in her own bed, sleepless next to Melkorka and the children who were all fast asleep, and couldn’t decide in the morning if she was glad for it or if she regretted it. But when he tried to kiss her before he left, she slightly turned her head so that his lips landed on her cheek rather than on her mouth, and her mistrustful gaze was rewarded with a sad smile.

Her nice red dress was done, and to what purpose? She didn’t want to wear it on her wedding day. She and Eyvind were to be wed just after the Solstice celebrations. She had done what she could to delay the ceremony, but now it seemed that all of her meagre influence had worn out.

And days passed, driving her right into her trap.

She didn’t search answers in the skies anymore, for no answer ever came.

She was alone, and Tórmoður carefully kept her at his side to make sure she wouldn’t escape, even if he lured her with the freedom of her own house.

Days were cold and very short now, and as dark as her mood as they reached the time to celebrate the Jólablot.

She helped with preparing the feast, brewing the strong beer, preparing food, sewing nice clothes for her son. The boy had been starting walking a few days ago, with an adorable expression of concentration and pride on his face that made her heart swell. She loved him so much, and he gave her so much love in return. Hadn’t it been for him, she might have been driven mad in despair.

The day before the Blot, Eyvind came, saying he wanted to spend the celebration with her. This made her feel nervous. There wasn’t much time left before she’d have to marry him, he was growing impatient, and she felt like a heavy stone weighed on her chest, making her heart and lungs struggle against her constricted ribs. She couldn’t sleep that night. Dark thoughts lingered in the darkest corners of her mind, and if the light of her consciousness went out to offer her a bit of rest, they immediately rose like threatening shadows.

Selfishness.

Betrayal.

Solitude.

She could only fall asleep as morning came and Melkorka lighted the stove and a few grease lamps.

***

They were gathered in the langhallr after the sacrifice, the offered pigs’ meat already sizzling on embers, a mouth-watering smell filling the air. Melkorka had finally convinced Eyð to wear her new red dress, and tried to cheer her up with telling she was beautiful. She was wearing her amber necklace as well, and her hair was artfully braided. A fake, hollow smile plastered on her face and her stomach knotted with a lingering nausea, Eyð felt like a trimmed mare brought to the horse fair. She kept little Ásgeir perched on her hip: she protected him from the crowd and he would protect her if her betrothed went too close. The boy watched the gathered people with wide eyes, and smiled tenderly at him because no matter how she tried to comb his hair, his messy red curls fell in his brow.

Eyvind, dressed in expensive black wool and his hair tied at the back of his head, came to greet her, offering a horn full of mead that she picked.

“You are beautiful”, he said.

She nodded politely and had to restrain herself not to empty the horn like a drunkard as she endured his compliments with indifference. Last year, she drank too much, and kissed Loki, thanks to the mead. Tonight she didn’t want to get drunk and risk to lose control and kiss Eyvind, because it would without any doubt let him think he could have rights upon her.

Tórmoður stood from his high-chair, his face still smeared with the pigs’ blood – oh, how it made her think of Kolfinnr’s face as he laid dead in the green grass of her meadows – and raised a toast to Freyr with a loud laughter, and the crowd laughed and cheered along.

But before he could lift his silver cup to his lips, the large front doors burst open and the strong wind engulfed in the longhouse, blowing a few lights out, and a heavy silence fell upon the hall at once.

And he was there.

Loki stood at the door, tall and proud and regal – no, divine – in his black leathers and green cape, with his hair neatly combed back, his chin high, his eyes full of casual boredom and his lips pursed in disdain.

Eyð’s heart jumped against her ribs with what could as well be unbridled joy and love or furious anger and resent, and her chest felt too tight again. She took three short breaths and jerked her arm away as Eyvind brushed her elbow.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t.

The god’s gaze crossed hers, and his green eyes, as green as poison, bore into hers.

***

Silence. Silence and fear.

Loki’s lips twisted a little in a thin, cruel smile. It was time that this bunch of peasants learnt their place. Oh, how he’d dreamt of this, the first time he found himself in this place more than a year ago, wearing dirty clothes, with his hands tied and blood crusted in his face. The first time that he saw her, when she refused to have him as a slave and called him sly.

He spotted her, his precious Eyð, beautiful in her red dress – even if he wouldn’t have chosen the same colour, of course – standing next to that man, frozen on place, her chest heaving, and he made a mental note to take care of him later. Her gaze was unreadable in the candle light of the longhouse, but he noticed that her once rosy lips were now dry and crackled, and that they were open to ease her breathing, before they pressed with an angry twitch as Eyvind tried to touch her arm and she abruptly removed herself from his fingers. Interesting.

“Well, well. Isn’t that my sister’s high born þræll? To what do we owe the pleasure, Your Highness?”

The chieftain’s tone was insolent, the title spoken as an insult.

“Are you always so keen on insulting your guests, mortal? Especially on such a special night?”

He made sure his smile was perfectly cordial and polite whilst his voice spilled venom, and his grin widened at hearing small gasps amongst the crowd gathered in the hall.

“You’ve not been invited to celebrate.”

“I can well choose to join if it pleases me.”

He let his gaze wander across the mortals.

“This is the longest night. The darkest night. You’d do well not to anger the darkest god of all.”

A man at his side took a step to him.

“And you’d do well not to soil this celebration with dark threats.”

Ah. If this one offered himself as an example, so be it. With an indifferent flicker of Loki’s fingers, a snake appeared around the man’s throat and slid tightly against his skin, throttling him.

“You’ll speak when you’re spoken to”, purred the god in a soft, bored, cruel tone.

In the corner of his eye, Loki noticed a skinny teenager sneaking to the dais, looking helplessly at the chieftain, obviously trying to get the man’s attention with pleading eyes. Oh, but this must be the boy he spared when the mortals attempted his assassination.

“You, boy”, he called, pointing his finger to him. “What do you have to say?”

The boy froze in panic, his eyes wide, his brains obviously blank with terror.

“Speak”, he repeated. “Tell them who I am.”

The boy’s mouth opened and closed like a cod’s. Loki frowned and tilted his head, demonstrating his benevolence, whilst he longed to slit the idiot’s throat and restrained himself.

Silence lingered a few more seconds.

“Speak!” he exclaimed, losing his patience, his godly voice filling the hall.

The man next to him now made almost no sound under the snake’s tight grip. Loki would have killed him with pleasure, but Eyð’s eyes were still fixing him, and he remembered the way she looked at him after he slaughtered her brother’s warriors. He didn’t want to read this disgusted terror in her gaze anymore, and with a snap of his fingers, he released the man who fell on his knees, breathing with effortful wheezes, clutching at the neck of his tunic. The boy tried to speak.

“You’re – you’re –“

A firm, feminine voice raised in the crowd. A beloved voice he could recognize amongst all.

“You’re Loki, god of Mischief, Lies and Chaos. The Sky-Traveller. The Father of the Wolf. The Thief of Iðunn’s apples. The Trickster. Master of Deception, Father of Lies. The Sly-One.”

Eyð had walked before the dais where her brother was watching the scene in fascination. Small as she was, she stood feisty and defiant, and her strength made Loki’s heart run in his chest and his cock stir in his trousers. Oh, his delicious mistress, fierce and proud and unbent.

“Is it enough? As for now, your most fitting name, to me, is Ormstunga.”

Gasps echoed amongst the guests.

Snake-tongue. He deserved the title, after the cruel lies and the cruellest truths he told her when he left. She almost spat it in anger, her lips thin and pressed hard as she finished speaking.

Oh, her lips. How he wanted to kiss them, to make them soft and pliant under his. How he wanted to wrap her in his arms, and feel her supple body against his, and hear the little sounds she’d make when he’d pleasure her with his fingers, never ceasing kissing her.

With a scornful look, she turned, her shoulders straight, and went to the master’s backroom, and in spite of all his self-control, he couldn’t help but laugh with love and joy at hearing her so spirited and strong. How did he miss her!

A heavy, deafening silence filled the room save from his laughter, and Loki rejoiced in the Miðgardians’ fear.

The chieftain’s wife, the loathsome woman who always leered at him when he was kept as a slave, rose from her chair, her eyes now low and head bent in reverence.

“Please excuse my sister-in-law”, she said. “She’s –“

“I’ll deal with her later”, he cut, and the woman blanched and sat back without a word.

“I must concede that I didn’t expect to see you again” said Tórmoður, his voice strained.

Loki grinned madly.

“You made a huge mistake, a few months ago. What mortal could try to kill a god?”

“I didn’t know it, back at that time.”

“Twelve men against one, really.”

Tórmoður kept silent. There was nothing to be said, indeed. The man cleared his throat and went down of his dais, opening the collar of his shirt, extending his arms to present his chest. This was the only thing he could do. The only way. He had put his people in danger and as their chieftain, had to endure the consequences to protect them.

“Take my life, then, god of Darkness. This is my offering to appease you. Take my life in exchange of the lives of the villagers."

Loki grinned and leaned lightly.

“Not tonight”, he said in a delighted tone, observing Tórmoður’s blue eyes. The man used all his courage to put a brave face and pretend he was not afraid of being killed by the cruellest god of all. “You’ll die soon enough, but shan’t have the honour to be my sacrificial victim.”

Last year to the day, he had refused that Eyð gave herself to him. He had refused what she called a sacrifice, no matter how bad he wanted her, because she didn’t want him and flinched in discomfort as he lifted his hand to fondle her. Tonight, he took great pleasure in refusing her brother’s sacrifice, humiliating the man by denying him an honourable death.

“Where is your sister?” he whispered.

Tórmoður frowned a little but kept silent. Rolling his eyes in impatience, Loki pressed his palm over the man’s forehead to have answers.

A small house in the back street. One room, one bed. A small cauldron on the stove, with boiling soup.

Good.

But there was more to be seen inside the man’s mind.

Tórmoður and Eyvind sitting face to face with cups of ale in their hands. Eyð, standing next to her brother, her gaze hollow and indifferent as they informed her of their agreement. Obedient, at long last.

The look on Eyð’s face was so painful to behold that his heart squeezed atrociously. And if he went further into the chieftain’s memories, there was more.

She was taking a few steps back as he approached with Eyvind, angry at her because she was still so loyal to her lover, this haughty thrall. Because she persisted in defying his authority.

Loyal? This new knowledge made Loki’s heart race in his chest. He watched this memory for a few more moments.

She was hanging wet wool-skeins to make them dry in the wind, and didn’t greet them properly as they approached. She’ll do as she’s told, he said, making a supreme effort not to slap her right here, in front of the man he intended to give her to. Didn’t she wish for a pretty face? She should be grateful instead of stupidly holding fast on refusing a good match.

Loki growled, a deep sound rumbling in his chest. Did the man use violence against his precious Eyð? He searched for more, ignoring the painful groan of the man he was interrogating.

Her byre. She, sitting on a stool and churning butter, not paying Tórmoður the attention he deserved. His anger. She made him lose his patience, stubborn girl that she was. Wearing men’s clothes that were improper. Refusing to answer his questions. Being insolent and calling her despicable lover a god. He had to keep her in line. A strong slap, her arm wrung in her back. Now she would obey.

That was enough.

Loki’s hand shot from the chieftain’s brow to his throat, his fingers tightening into the flesh, aiming to hurt and kill.

“She’s mine”, he hissed, “and yet, you dared to manhandle her and sell her to one of your men. You will be punished for this.”

The man’s eyes were bulging in his face, and he helplessly opened his mouth, silently gasping for air, gripping the god’s wrist. Loki forced him down on his knees and with a supreme effort of his will, opened his hand to release him. Immediately, Tórmoður’s hands were at his neck, tugged at his shirt as he coughed and took large gulps of air.

“But if I kill you now, she’ll be upset. I’ll make sure to have her consent”, Loki growled with a disgusted rictus.

“I didn’t know – I didn’t –“

With a whispered hush and a dismissive wave of Loki’s hand, Tórmoður’s lips were sealed.

“Silence”, he said very softly.

His eyes wide in panic, heavily breathing through his nose, the chieftain touched his mouth and let a muttered shout.

Without any remorse, the god turned on his heels and strode out of the longhouse.

Chapter Text

And if you don’t love me now
You will never love me again
I can still hear you saying
You would never break the chain

Fleetwood Mac, “The Chain”

XXXIII.

Eyð was pacing back and forth in the only room of her small house, a hand on her chest to try and calm her racing heartbeat, her breath short and shallow.

He was here. He was here. She had insulted him in front of dozens of people, and it made him laugh.

How should she understand it?

Why did he come back? For her? To avenge himself?

And there was something worse than her worries.

Immediately, as she saw him standing proud like the god he was between the two large doors, seeing his hard stare and hearing his imperious voice, her body was set aflame with desire, like a torch coated with pine tar. Her body, the traitor. Her skin felt too sensitive against the layers of fabric that covered it, and she already felt the familiar wetness of her nether lips, along with the increasing heat in her lower belly.

How was it possible that her body wanted him so much, when her mind only wanted to yell at him for leaving her at her brother’s mercy?

“Mistress, you have to calm down”, pleaded Melkorka, presenting her a cup of water.

“Everyone in the longhouse is terrified, and he’s gloating in their fear. How could I be calm?”

She kept the truth to herself. The foolish hopes that whispered in the back of her mind.

He’s come for me. He misses me. Maybe, maybe, he doesn’t despise me.

The slave woman laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Shhh, mistress. You don’t have anything to fear from him. He’s scary, but I can’t believe he could ever harm you.”

“But he already harmed me, didn’t he? Or else, why did he kept away for so long?”

Just as she spoke in anxious anger, the door opened and snow entered the house, carried by the wind as Loki filled her doorframe, his black curls and green cape whirling around, splendid and glorious in the eyes of both women.

How did he find her? How did he know of this house? He must have watched her go out of the longhouse, of course, he was no fool and neither was she. But he ignored the existence of this humble shelter, and she’d hoped to have a few moments of peace to get a grip on herself before having to face him.

In vain. As ever with him.

And yet. Loki was standing at her door, watching her face with a cautious stare, gauging her, while nervously rubbing his thumb and index. He had all the reasons to be unnerved, she thought bitterly, biting her bottom lip to forget her anxiety and fuel her anger with pain instead.

Melkorka gasped loudly as the door opened and watched him with wide eyes, gathering the children in her skirts as Eyð faced the Dark god whose imposing presence seemed to fill the sole room. She had to speak first and not give him time to tell pretty lies.

“Where have you been?” she asked angrily, almost as if he’d spent the night drinking with friends and returned totally wretched. Doing her best to ignore his beauty and the throbbing ache in her lower belly, for her fierce desire had come over at the mere sight of him. The wind carried his scent to her nostrils. Leather, pine, cold stones. She gritted her teeth to stiffen a sigh. Her skin felt too tight, irritated by the linen and wool she was wearing.

He grinned in his charming, disarming, infuriating manner, and her anger was set ablaze at once. Arming her hand, she strode the four steps that separated them and slapped him hard, noticing that he watched her and waited without doing anything to avoid the blow. A sharp pain shot through her hand, but she didn’t care. It was worth it. How could he come back like nothing ever happened?

He growled, low and deep, in an erotic manner, his lips curled and his pupils expanded. And her insides responded more than she wished to this, clenching around nothing. Damn him. Angry with herself because she fell too easily in his trap, she struck him again with the back of her hand, hearing her bones crack, groaning under the heightened pain, and could only wriggle as he seized her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“I deserved it”, he mumbled through kisses on her skin, “but if you could slap a slave, you can’t slap a god anymore.”

As he kissed her hand, heat spread from her wrist to her palm and then to her fingers, making her hiss sharply again.

“Shh, you broke your bones, darling. Let me kiss it good.”

He was healing her with his seiðr, just like the time she got burnt because he desperately wanted her to remove his magic collar. How did he dare to heal her, after he ruthlessly left her without a word?

But the feeling of his lips on her skin, oh. Oh.

Without a second thought, she grabbed his hair with her left hand and brought his face to hers, meeting his lips with hers, kissing him fiercely, walking back with him inside the house, closer to the heat of the stove. He plunged his fingers in her hair to cradle her skull and followed her, his steps matching hers, his lips never leaving hers. He knew her too well, that bastard. He kissed her slow and deep and dominant, when she was frantic and all but tugged at his hair. In the back of her mind, she registered the sound of hurried footsteps and of the front door. Melkorka and the children leaving. She took a few steps back, until her back touched the small table, and lifted one thigh, then the other, to sit on it, and let go one of her hands from his hair to grab her skirts and hitch them up her legs.

He chuckled. The arrogant git dared to chuckle.

She bit his lips, and his growl was more of a reward as he used his hands to lift her skirts too and touch her bare skin underneath, lightly fondling her.

He was slow, too slow, showed too much restraint.

She fumbled with his trousers and freed him, taking his already hard length in hand and giving a long stroke that made him hiss and close his eyes.

That was better.

Unable to wait anymore, she opened her legs and brought him to her.

“So soon?” he grunted. “Hasn’t anyone offered their help during my absence?”

Really? Who did he think she was? Did she not swear to be only his?

Her painful look and silent gasp were answered by a guilty gaze.

“I didn’t want to say it that way – it was just mischief – Eyð, I –“

“Shut up, you rogue, and don’t make me wait.”

A relieved sigh, and a purr. Oh, what these sounds made to her!

He teased her folds with the head of his cock, before slipping it inside her, only to retreat.

“What are you doing?” she cried in indignation.

With a cruel smile, he slipped a little further, then exited again. And again, and she fisted his hair, clenching her fingers tight with a cry of frustration.

“Don’t hold back!”

He slammed into her with a loud groan, and she brought her other hand in his back for balance with a high-pitched cry at the pleasant burn of the stretch, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. This. This was what she had been waiting for, for months. The second thrust made her cry, her insides already quivering under white-hot pleasure. The third made her shake and writhe under the force of a powerful orgasm, and she clawed at his hair and clothes in need of something to hold on as he prolonged her ecstasy.

When the spasms receded and she opened her eyes, she could only see his devilish smug grin.

“Did you miss me that bad, darling?”

Was there no end to his cruelty? How could he shift to arrogant to guilty, then back to arrogant, making fun of her without considering her own feelings?

She drew back enough to slap him again with a furious shout.

“How would you know? You were away! You left me! You left me without a word!”

Her eyes stung, and there were no tears yet, for she had no more. His eyes seemed to have a wet glint, though. He breathed slowly, several times, and she saw that his throat constricted hard.

“I missed you”, he murmured. “I missed you so bad. And it was so painful, like my lungs tearing out of my ribs.”

“Who’s to blame?” she hissed. “Who chose to tear us apart?”

He bent to her, kissing her brow, cupping her face in his hands to lift hers and catch her lips.

“I did. I did, and I never ceased feeling the weight of my mistake.”

She answered his kiss, holding on his shoulders, pressing against him in fear of letting him go away again. He was in her arms at last, here for real. His strength, his warmth, his masculine scent of leather and cold stone. How could she want to let him go? He took a deep breath before murmuring against her lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I made you suffer. I love you so much I was afraid.”

A slight tilt of his hips made her gasp and a second, immediate, deeper one made her jerk her head backwards.

“Afraid?” she managed to whine. “I never counted you for a coward.”

The painful look in his eyes felt like talons around her heart. She could have gloated, but his guilt was real, and she never rejoiced in being mean. With a kiss and undulations of her hips, she invited him to continue what they had begun, whilst struggling to unclasp his cloak and open his black and green leather doublet. With a wave of his wrist and a shimmer of green, he was naked between her thighs.

“No magic with my dress”, she breathed. “Undo it like you used to.”

With a lighter smile, he unfastened the brooches holding the straps of her apron dress and pulled at the string of her neck, then slipped the garments over her head.

“How pretty you are”, he praised with a slow thrust. “Beautifully naked and open for your god, just like an offering on a shrine.”

Yes. Yes. She missed this, too. His voice husky with desire, his whispered praises, no matter how arrogant he was. Reclining to lay her bare back onto the wooden planks of the table, she raised her hands above her head, surrendering herself to him.

“Like this?”

The strangled noise at the back of his throat told her she had reached her aim. He hitched her ankles on his shoulders and started fucking her wholeheartedly, his deep, hard thrusts reaching all the places that made her dizzy and incoherent, leaving her at his mercy.

“I missed you so much, my pretty little mistress.”

He repeated it tirelessly, fondling her skin with one hand, the other keeping her thighs flush against his torso, his eyes keenly watching her face as she surrendered to pleasure.

***

She cracked an eye open, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder, and wrapped a leg over his thigh to savour the moment.

And yet, she couldn’t help her heart squeeze under the strong fear that this was just a dream. Just a reprieve. That nothing good could ever last.

“Tell me, darling. What worries you?”

Should she speak? Should she even listen to him, after what he said when he left her in the latest days of the earlier winter?

“What now?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s quite simple in fact. What about us, now?”

She wanted so much to hope that he had come back for her. If she wanted something, she should say it, shouldn’t she?

“Why did you come back?”

She propped herself on one elbow to have a good look at him. In the dim light of the grease lamp, he looked bemused, with his brows frowned and eyes unsure. He kept silent, attentive to what she had to say.

“Because if you decided to come back only to have a good fuck, then you’re done. If you’re going to leave once more, just leave now and don’t come back again.”

His lips pressed, his throat constricted as he swallowed with effort. He opened his lips, but she didn’t let him speak. She had to finish before he could lie to her.

“But if you’re here for good, than we can talk about it. I just want to know.”

“Eyð, I –“

He gulped, swallowing his words, and she got up to pick her undershirt and slip it. There was no use staying naked before him. His stare would only make her uneasy by now, and she still could decide to discard the cloth if they made progress. If he told the truth and she decided he still deserved her love.

She sat back in the bed, facing him, her legs crossed to make herself comfortable, and he reclined against the headboard. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. Her anger was still truly burning inside her chest, and she was well within her rights to demand a clear explanation.

“I was afraid, because my status couldn’t allow me to have a Miðgardian mistress.”

“Your status?” she hissed. “I’m the chieftain’s sister and a widow, and still I made my slave my lover. I had a status to worry about, too.”

“I’m a Prince. A God.”

“I know. You used to repeat it quite often.”

He pursed his lips at her clipped tone. Was he stiffening a smile?

“My father could have had you killed, only to punish me”, he added.

She felt blood drain from her face. His father. The very Allfather. Well, if she died, all of her sufferings would end. Perhaps it wasn’t that bad, after all. But what of Ásgeir? Who would he turn into, were he fostered by Tórmoður? And yet, if Loki was here with her in spite of the Allfather’s threats, there must be a reason.

“But you’re the god of Lies and Scheming. So I’d say you’re back either because you don’t care about anything at all, or because you found a way to sort it out.”

 “Now you’re the one being cruel, my love”, he breathed.

She didn’t take pleasure in watching his discomfort, but he had to understand that she wouldn’t forgive him easily.

“I became cruel with pain and solitude.”

He lowered his eyes and nodded in silence.

“My mother and Thor, actually, suggested something”, he whispered after a few moments.

She tilted her head. What? No pride and self-importance? Was he acknowledging that he hadn’t had a smart idea? Was it even Loki she was speaking to? She waited for him to speak until he casted an unsure glance.

“I’m listening”, she offered.

“I don’t intend to leave anymore. I’ve thought it through. They had a good idea, and there might be a means of living peacefully together. If you agree, that is.”

Should she listen to his lies? She huffed, trying to master the tiny sparkle of hope lightening in her heart.

“Explain.”

Her voice wasn’t as harsh as she intended. Now she wanted to listen to him, but not to make it easy for him.

“As a God, I could choose Svínoy as my own personal sanctuary, and you as my Priestess. So, in the eyes of Gods and men, you’d be protected, as well of your family and belongings. No-one dares to attack a priestess.”

She immediately saw what this proposition could offer. A quiet life, like the one they had for a few weeks last winter. Before he got bored of her and decided to go back to where he truly belonged.

“And if I refuse?”

His painful stare was unbearable and made her heart sink. He must have considered this eventuality, though, given his oratory precautions. His eyes dropped and he did his best to master his features.

“I’d respect your choice, of course. You’d be free to marry Eyvind, would you choose him.”

No, she wouldn’t. She only would do as she was told, and have to resign herself, and lay back with spread legs to let an undesired man plant an undesired child in her womb. As did many women, and most of them managed with their fate. If she wanted to choose, it seemed to be now or never. And yet –

“I’m to be wed within the week. Even if I’m unwilling.”

Her voice was unsteady, quavering with emotion. She had refused this wedding with all her strength, and yet had been herded like cattle to her betrothed. It seemed to her that nothing could possibly be done to avoid it.

“Trust me, flower. Your brother won’t deny you, were you to confront him again.”

“What did you do to him? Did you –“

“Shhh”, he cut, “don’t fear. I didn’t hurt him. You’ll punish him as you see fit.”

She frowned and bit her lip in worry. She knew what he was capable of and remembered very well her meadow drenched in the warrior’s blood.

“What do you say?” he asked softly, almost shyly, and his voice brought her back to her other worries. To the solitude she had been suffering for months. To his ruthless behaviour moments before he left in shimmering light.

“How could I be sure you’ll never leave me again?”

“I had time to understand that life without you is miserable.”

“Almost three seasons. You took your time indeed.”

His eyes were so full of sorrow and pain.

“Three seasons – to me, it was only three weeks.”

She scoffed in disdain.

“Three weeks suffering. Poor you. You left me here, all alone, at the mercy of Tórmoður and Eyvind. To me, it lasted three seasons.”

“Eyð, I know what your brother did to you, I read his mind. You’ll choose how you want me to punish him. As for Eyvind –“

“How could I trust you to stay? Last time, you called me a boring mortal, god of Deceit.”

Once again, he shot her a painful look. He was feeling guilty. Good.

“I didn’t call you boring.”

She scoffed through her nose and raised her brows, wordlessly calling him a liar.

“You misunderstood me, Eyð. I merely assessed you are mortal.”

“What’s the difference to you?”

“Can’t you see?” he exclaimed, sitting up straight. “Your mortality scares me. I’ve been afraid of it since I started thinking of you in a different way. Since I kissed you that first time, outside the drying shed.”

A shiver ran down her spine at the memory of that first kiss. She had delicious memories of this kiss. Like he was taking possession of her. And yet, how cruel he had been in the following days!

“Because –“ he paused with a choked sound, “you’ll only live a few more decades, whilst I’ll mourn you for millennia.”

He finished his phrase almost breathless, his eyes wet. If he was lying and playing the panicked lover, he was extremely talented indeed, for her insides knotted under the strong emotions that swirled into her.

He swallowed heavily, trying to regain his composure.

“So if you’re still wanting me, and I’d understand if you wouldn’t after what I inflicted to you, I’m offering to live at your side, like your partner, for the rest of your life, and ensure you won’t be threatened by anyone. Because, Eyð, I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

She had to breathe deep. A few times in a row. There were still questions lingering in her mind. Unanswered questions that had been there for so long.

“And when you get bored?”

“Of you? Impossible.”

“Of this life. There’s little to do, almost nowhere to go. You were always bored before.”

“I was”, he admitted, and she clenched her jaw to endure his painful words. “I was, before you gave the precious gift of your love to me.”

She rolled her eyes and chortled in incredulity. Was there no end to his cajoleries?

“Liar.”

“No. Search your memories and you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

Deep inside, she already knew it, of course. He never laughed nor pranked them more than those days. But she was still afraid that he could get bored out of his mind, for he wasn’t easily satisfied.

“And so, in the end of those three unbearable weeks, what decided you to come back?”

“I was wearing the shirt you offered to me when I went back with Thor. It was put off of me in the healing quarters, and then, I did my best to act as if nothing ever happened.”

“Really? So? How many women did you have?”

He blinked a few times, and his feigned air of innocence fuelled her anger once more.

“Tell me, god of Cheating, how many women can a prince fuck in three weeks?”

He laughed, lightly, carelessly, and she had to use all her self-mastery not to slap his pretty face once more. He was mocking her, and nothing had ever been so painful.

“You’re jealous”, he giggled before he took a breath and schooled his features, even though a smile was lingering on his lips. “Let me show you”, he whispered, taking her hand and placing it upon his temple.

She was assaulted by images of him.

Nightmares that left him sweating and panting. Endless contemplation of the abyss at his feet. An everlasting pain in his chest. Drunken nights. A blonde, beautiful woman, a second best, whom he spurned after kissing her and touching her between her legs. Self-loathing and self-disgust.

She withdrew her hand in fear.

“What was that?”

“My memories. I can’t alter them, so you know I don’t lie.”

He took her hand between his long fingers and lightly stroked the back with his thumb.

“You know I don’t lie, do you? Except for that one time when Thor came for me, I never lied to you.”

She knew it. She wanted to believe him so hard, but she still felt his treason so heavily. Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to hide her emotions.

“When my Mother brought me the shirt you made for me, after it was laundered, your absence was unbearable. I knew then that I have no purpose without you.”

His pleading eyes were so sincere! Oh, how could he be lying in such a moment? She swallowed with difficulty, unable to speak.

 “And later, I met the Nornir.”

“What?” she breathed.

Now, this had to be a lie.

“I went to Urðarbrunnr, and asked the Three about my life. About our fate.”

He had always been a talented raconteur, but this went too far. This story sounded totally ridiculous. Not even a god could demand something from the Nornir. She burst in laughter, her nervousness making her laugh hysterically, so hard it made her snort in a very unladylike manner.

“Believe me, they’re not funny at all.” His stern face was belied by an amused glint in his eyes.

“What did they told you?” she managed to giggle.

“They showed me, rather than told me.”

Her laughter stopped as he patiently described the Tree, the Great Loom of Fate and the Tapestry. His life, a twisted and tangled thread. Hers, a much simpler thread of white yarn. How the Nornir weaved both of their lives together, how they granted him the favour of choosing if he wanted their threads to be intertwined again.

“What should I tell them?” he asked. “My decision is made, but what do you choose?”

Now this wasn’t funny, and there was no reason to laugh anymore. She carefully exhaled, then inhaled, to clear her mind before she spoke. What could she say that she didn’t say yet? She knew very well what she wanted.

“Can’t you guess?” she whispered. “I already told you last year, almost day to day.”

Chapter Text

Throw yourself into the unknown
With pace and a fury defiant
Clothe yourself in beauty untold
And see life as a means to a triumph

Today, of all days, see
How the most dangerous thing is to love
How you will heal and you'll rise above
Crowned by an overture bold and beyond
Ah, it's more courageous to overcome

Gang of Youths, “Achilles, Come Down”

XXXIV.

Little Ásgeir was quietly playing on the planked floor, next to him. The boy was nice. He had been asked not to make noise, and thus was silently spinning a top, watching it intently. A dull headache was pounding at Loki’s temples, and he was sitting in the dark, his eyelids closed to ease his discomfort, distractively listening to the murmurs coming from the other side of the openwork leather curtain.

He had insisted, during the building of his sanctuary four years ago, upon being separated from the supplicants and kept almost invisible save for his shadow behind the intertwined leather stripes.

Eyð was sitting on the other side, listening to the people, some of them asking for protection, other in search of advice which he whispered in her ear, and she served as an intermediary between his godly words and the mortals.

So was his divine will.

Four years before, when they had left Árnafjørður, he had set his conditions. He had informed the villagers that Svínoy would be his sanctuary and Eyð his priestess. That the island was not to be visited expect twice a year, at the equinox. That those two precise days, he would grant the mortals an audience if needed. That a tribute in kind was to be paid precisely twice a year.

No celebrations, no rituals. No worship but their fear and deference.

Tormóður’s lips had been loosened, and Loki couldn’t help smirking as the man made amends to his sister as she scowled at him. Watching his throat constrict in uneasiness as she disdainfully refused to acknowledge his apologies had been deeply satisfactory.

She’d been too indulgent to Eyvind for his likings, though, accepting his words of contrition and his offerings with a stiff nod. The man gave five slaves, three cows, and building timber, a rare and precious commodity in this bleak archipelago.

He was bored. The day was dull and his headache didn’t help him find any interest in the audiences.

Audiences were inevitable of course, for they ensured his ascendency on the islanders and kept him informed of what was going on. He had a certain number of men and women who kept their ears and eyes open and went to whisper what they knew directly in his ear.

And so, when Eyvind crossed the threshold, his young son in his arms, he knew exactly why the man was daring to ask the benevolence of a vengeful god.

As the new visitor entered in his turn, Eyð tensed immediately, and Loki opened his eyes and took a sharp breath, vigilant at once to what was troubling her. With a wave of his fingers, the grease lamps lit like on their own.

Raising and standing tall to make sure his shadow would be seen by the attendants, he took a peep through the curtain to see Eyvind carrying his child. The man didn’t tarry to wed another woman and sire his offspring after his betrothal to Eyð was broken by Loki’s return. The boy was very young, three years at most, and was watching around him with wide eyes. A young woman was following them, looking afraid. Eyvind respectfully kept his eyes low as he approached the priestess’ high-chair.

“The baby is ill”, Loki whispered to her, and he was seized by the urge to kiss the skin under her ear as she turned her head to him. “Convulsions. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

The boy had epilepsy. The mortals’ healing knowledge was far too poor to ease the ailment, let alone cure it. He could mend a broken bone, not treat a neurological disorder.

She gave a short nod and turned back to Eyvind.

“I knew you belonged to the dark god”, the man said. “I knew it. You told me, and I persisted in wanting to marry you because I doubted he would come back for you. It was an error. An unforgivable one. But my son –“ His voice faltered, and his breath caught in his throat. He took a few moments to get a grip. “My son is innocent. He doesn’t deserve to be cursed.”

He kneeled, and so did his wife.

“Please have mercy”, she breathed, and her voice was so shy Loki could barely hear her.

Eyð cleared her throat, obviously ill at ease.

“Your son’s health has nothing to do with –“

“Please, priestess. You’re a mother, too. Please intercede.”

“I can’t.”

Eyð’s patience was evidently very thin when it came to this man, the edge in her voice made it clear. Loki sighed through his nose. He pushed the curtain aside and stepped in the audience room, something he rarely did.

The young mother’s eyes widened in terror and she bowed deeply, still on her knees. Eyvind watched him pleadingly.

Damn.

As much as he enjoyed filling the villagers with terror, the night Heimdall sent him back in Miðgard, he didn’t enjoy watching the parents’ distress. He might be cruel, but he wasn’t totally heartless.

“Be sure that I’m not seeking vengeance through the boy’s illness. That would be low of me. If I wanted to make you suffer for your audacity, be sure I’d turn my eye directly on you.“

Eyð stiffened more, and Eyvind’s wife whimpered.

Loki took a few steps forward, stopping close to the kneeling man and his son who watched him attentively. He extended his hand and touched the boy’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Healing convulsions is not in my abilities. You should pray to Frigga, she might take pity on you. Make sure to slide a piece of leather between his teeth during a crisis.”

He gave a dismissive gesture and turned his back to the petitioners, letting his gaze wander on his priestess’ form. She looked austere in her black velvet dress, the high neck of it stopping just below her jaw and making her hold her back straight and chin high. He had chosen the formal outfit for her to wear during the hearings. He knew her back and shoulders would be sore tonight, and he stiffened a smirk at the idea that he would rub her cramped muscles before making love to her.

***

This winter was particularly long and cold.

The humidity had gone deep in the bones of this old fool of Ronan, and the old slave now spent his days sitting beside the fire-pit or laying on his sleeping bench. Loki frequently eased his pains with his seiðr, but today, something was amiss.

The man was more tired than usual and stayed in bed. The women were worried about him for he refused any food.

In the evening, he started gasping. Orla, sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, shot a pleading look at Loki. He answered with a sad look, feeling utterly helpless.

This was his punishment. It was better than anything Odin could have imagined to castigate him because of his foolishness. Watching them die, one by one, and remain the last, alone for all eternity.

Ronan was going first, but the others would follow him.

He died at dawn, and Loki was surprised to sincerely mourn the old man. Ronan was the closest he knew to a friend, with his impish chatter and artfully teasing tone. Those last months, he had been very weakened and Loki had exempted him from most of his tasks, which had made the old slave grumble for he had felt left out, even though the Dark god said he would need him as a foreman, to oversee the new slaves’ work, and this lie seemed to have appeased him a bit.

Loki mourned him.

He went to his grave every other day, and his heart squeezed painfully in anticipation of what heartbreak he would feel when he finally got to visit Eyð’s grave.

***

Another spring equinox. Another day of audiences. Loki felt strangely grateful to the trivial daily work, for it often provided simple joys. They all shared a simple family life that he could never have expected in Asgard. He knew it would come to an end, and tried to make the most of what appeared to be a golden break in his life.

Ásgeir had turned seven winters and had started sparring with him a few days before. The boy was strong and Loki made sure he was well educated. For now, he was leading the cows to the meadow with the help of a slave and of the dog. The old dog was dead, too, and this one had been offered as a tribute by Tórmoður’s eldest son, who was now a teenager. Loki watched the boy from afar, casually leaning on the gable end of the house, his arms crossed on his chest.

A rustle of fabric informed him that Eyð was going out of the house and crossing the courtyard to the temple. Turning his head, he caught her eye and smiled to her.

His beautiful priestess, clad in black velvet, her long mane flowing in her back.

“It is time”, she called.

He rolled his eyes playfully, and she giggled, the crystalline sound swept away by the wind.

With a wave of his hand, he changed into his Asgardian armour as he entered the temple by his private back door. The grease lamps were already lit and he took place next to the curtain, making sure that his shadow was visible.

Eyð was tensed, he could feel it at once.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“Tórmoður is waiting outside.”

Her breath was short and shallow, even though Loki made sure that the man wouldn’t bother her anymore, years ago, threatening to deny him his place in Valhalla, should he try to use his sister as a pawn in his little game for power.

“Don’t let him in”, he barked to the slaves who helped her with the supplicants.

“I’ll hear him.”

Her voice was firmer and he growled. How dared she contradict him in front of slaves?

“No.”

The word was spoken in a clipped voice that admitted no discussion.

“Loki, he’s still my brother.”

He sighed. Oh, this woman. This particular woman. She was strong and fierce and she alone dared to stand to him.

“Fine. He’ll be the last one.”

They spent the day listening to women demanding revenge against cheating husbands, to a girl abandoned by a man who promised marriage if she gave herself to him, to a man asking for advice to learn to lie in order to deceive the jarl – and his stupidity almost made the god cry laughing. Some people asked for him to bless their children or cattle.

And last of all, Tórmoður entered the hall, his face perfectly smooth, not looking angry, not complaining for having been left waiting outside for hours. Having endured the humiliation with patience. He had been waiting under the rain, and his clothes were soaked through. He let an involuntary shiver and shaking breath as he stood with his head bent before his sister.

“I insisted upon seeing you”, she said softly. “My Dark god wanted to send you back.”

“Thank you, sister”, the man whispered.

“What brings you here?”

Loki smiled to himself. She was acting confident even though he well knew how uneasy she still felt nowadays around her brother, after the months she spent in Árnafjørður while he was in Asgard. She was almost kept like a hostage, back at that time, to make sure she would marry the man he had chosen for her.

The chieftain cleared his throat.

“When your son was born, when I performed the watering rite, I offered to foster him.”

She stood abruptly, not waiting for him to finish his words.

“I have come to repeat my offer”, he said, his voice soft and polite.

“No.”

It was her turn to use a short, barked answer, and her brother watched her patiently, waiting for her to give explanations.

“Don’t you dare thinking I’ll give you the honour –“

“Would you deny me the pleasure of raising the boy myself?” Loki asked low and deep, using his seiðr to step through the leather curtain.

He smirked as the man quickly kneeled to him. Good. He was learning his place.

“No, my Lord.”

“The boy is mine, as is his mother”, he growled, prowling to Tórmoður, caressing his cheek with one finger, deceptively gentle, only to brutally tilt the man’s chin up to make him look at him. He smiled at him, almost tenderly.

“Can’t you see the sweet revenge here? Your brother-in-law had the temerity to capture me, and now, look at me. I’m alive and I recovered my full power whilst he’s dead.”

He knew his cruel words unsettled Eyð, even if she had overcome her grief. He bent to the man’s ear, not wanting her to hear to what he said to say yet.

“What a most delectable vengeance it is to get my fill fucking my enemy’s wife and raising his son.”

Loki savoured the fear in the man’s eyes. He wasn’t even lying. He hadn’t seduced Eyð out of revenge, of course, but when he came to think of it this way, it always filled him with the deep sense of satisfaction that this moronic husband of hers had failed putting him down.

“Now go. Don’t you ever bother us again, or I’ll hold your head in the shore waves myself.”

***

The month Ásgeir turned fourteen, a man came for the equinox audience, to inform Eyð that the jarl was preparing for the summer raids and that he was offering to take her son with him.

Her first reaction was to refuse, but Loki had the boy called, who said he wanted to go.

She was cross with the god the next days, snapping at him because he encouraged her only son to go and fight – and possibly get killed – away from her.

And Loki listened to her anxious words, but said it was how it was meant to be, that the boy had to leave his mother in order to become a man. That the boy had learnt to fight with him and was able to defend himself. That he, a god, would make sure her son wouldn’t get killed and always came back safely. That it was the only way he could gain fame and respect amongst his peers.

She knew it, of course, but her mother’s heart bled at the mere idea of their separation.

And finally, she sent a man to the jarl, inviting him to come and speak his proposal in person. Loki scolded her that day, saying that her arrogance would not diminish her sorrow, that she didn’t understand politics well enough. She held fast against him, silently watching him in the eye, strong and unpliant. He loved her even more when she challenged him. His own priestess, so willing to serve and worship him, so defiant when he was getting bossy with her.

But when the jarl’s longship entered the cove, when the man politely asked for the honour of becoming the priestess’ son protector, Loki understood that she had outsmarted him, and he couldn’t help the proud grin on his face as he listened to her polite yet firm voice coming from the other side of the leather curtain.

***

As years passed, Ásgeir grew tall and strong. He always came back from raiding to spend winter in his mother’s farm. In his farm, actually, for it was his father’s legacy.

He became the living image of his father, with thick red hair and a fierce beard, and Eyð always watched him with pride. The young man wasn’t smug, though, neither did his behaviour remind Loki of his father. For if he still tenaciously hated the man, twenty years after he drowned, he certainly had to admit that he loved his enemy’s son like his own.

He always made sure that his seed didn’t took in Eyð’s womb. They had discussed it.  He was already defying Odin’s orders by living with her and couldn’t afford to sire another monstrous child, let alone risk to see her harmed – or worse – through pregnancy or childbirth, for he ignored whether her mortal body was compatible with his biology. He had chosen simple words that her lack of scientific knowledge could understand, and she easily agreed with him.

But still, he could sometimes tell that having but one child made her sad. He sincerely loved Ásgeir, but the more the boy grew, the more he became respectfully deferent instead of the easy familiarity of his childhood. This came mostly after he first left with the jarl, and Loki suspected that the islanders told him stories about him, the God of Lies, the Dark-one. And though they never spoke of it, Loki had to admit that he regretted never to have seen his beloved priestess heavy with his child. Never to have held their baby in his arms. He sometimes imagined a little girl with her golden hair and his green eyes, only to immediately shake his head at the foolish thought. What if the baby girl turned into a monster like her siblings and wreaked havoc in the nine realms?

And still, he was left with a hollowness that made him know that even if he was happy with this life, he wanted more.

When he was twenty, Ásgeir married the jarl’s niece, a haughty girl named Guðrið. When their first child was born – a boy, named Bjørn after his great-grandfather – Eyð moved to live in Loki’s temple. The baby’s cries reminded her of the awful, sleepless nights she had spent, when she was mourning her husband and her baby son wouldn’t sleep. Her grandson and she soon became very close, and the boy often sneaked inside the sanctuary, where the god taught him a variety of tricks and pranks to the expense of the family. Other children were born after him, and the farm was soon filled with laughter and children games.

***

Loki had been fearing this for years now, and it was happening. There was nothing he could do against it.

Eyð was abed, her white hair neatly brushed over one shoulder, her parched lips opened with her effortful breath. He had begged Eir to come and heal her, but the goddess only gave him a woeful gaze. Eyð was too old, her time had come.

It had been thirty-eight years since she’d become his priestess. The only priestess he ever cared to have. The only mortal who cared to worship him.

Orla was long dead, having soon followed Ronan. Melkorka died a few years ago. Kórmakur was now an old man, freed after Melkorka’s death but still in Eyð’s service.

And now, Eyð was fulfilling her mortal fate. She was dying.

She didn’t seem to be in pain, though. Only tired. So, so tired.

Her frail body was covered with thick furs and she shivered, even though they were in the heart of summer. All he could do was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her hands in his, and softly blow on them to warm them with his seiðr. Unable to speak.

“Don’t be sad, my love”, she wheezed.

“Shhhh”, he whispered. “Don’t speak, you’ll exert yourself.”

She gave him a tired smile.

“Don’t lie to me now, my love. I know it’s the end of my journey here.”

“Eyð, don’t –“

His words caught in his throat, and he choked, his chest crushed under the lead-weight of his fear.

“It’s alright. You’re going to be alright.”

She watched her surroundings and frowned.

“Where is Ásgeir?”

Loki made a sign to the man, who entered and came to kneel beside his mother. Guðrið, heavily pregnant, plodded behind him. Eyð smiled to them, but talking drained her forces, and Loki finally asked them to go away.

Eyð fell asleep for a while, and he anxiously surveyed her breath.

“I’m cold”, she croaked at a moment, her eyes still closed. “Won’t you lay next to me to warm me?”

“As the mistress wishes”, he said playfully, as well as to ward off his grief as to alleviate her mood by bringing memories of her youth to her. When she was a young widow and he an arrogant slave. When he challenged her and she deployed considerable efforts to keep him in line.

He laid down on the mattress next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hummed in satisfaction.

“Do you remember the poem you whispered to me on our first morning?”

He did. Oh, the memory was as delightful as it was painful.

“What were the words? We must sleep an endless night. And when we have kissed thousands of kisses, we’ll mix them all so that we don’t know how many kisses we have shared. Wasn’t it something like that?”

“You have an excellent memory indeed, my love”, he murmured. “We indeed kisses thousands of kisses. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you, sweetling.”

His heart squeezed painfully. He knew what she was trying to doing. She was saying her goodbyes. Slipping his princely mask on, he kept a brave face and leaned his head on hers. Comforting her.

“Thank you, my beloved god, for waiting here with me. I’ve been living a better life than I could have ever dreamt of.”

He choked, his throat tight under the strong emotion. Unable to speak, he could only kiss the root of her hair and the cold skin of her head.

“Don’t cry, my love”, she whispered again. “You made me so happy. I want you to be happy, too. Don’t mourn me for too long. Love someone else.”

“Impossible”, he breathed, unable to say more without breaking.

“I want you to overcome your sorrow. It doesn’t mean you have to forget me. Promise me to heal and let yourself be happy again.”

He could only shake his head at her effortful words. How could he make such a promise? She was asking too much from him.

“Promise, Loki”, she asked, her voice firmer. “All I had, I gave it to you.”

Of course. She’d always been so good to him. Who could love him so completely, if it wasn’t her? Didn’t she deserve to be mourned for all eternity?

“Please. I can’t go peacefully if I know you’ll be sad forever.”

This defeated him. He nodded against her head and managed to whisper his promise, screwing his eyes shut when she hummed in contentment.

She fell asleep again, and he held her fast against him, letting his seiðr flow to warm her.

At some time, he fell asleep, too. When a slave woke him, bringing his tray of food, Eyð was lifeless in his arms. Gone.

He thought he had been preparing for this to happen, but – it was unbearable. Atrocious. Monstrous. This body, once so pliant, refused to warm again, to come back to life. Eyð was dead.

He remembered using such words to an excess. He happened to say that he was bored to death, that he was starved to death. But this was not death. He had used words such as agony, such as grief, such as loss. And they could not compare to the monstrosity that filled his eyes. Eyð was dead.

She had loved him. Deeply. Could he be satisfied with this knowledge, now that she wasn’t here anymore? Could he be so easily satisfied? Don’t cry, my beloved god.

He respected her wish, and hardened himself against the world outside his temple.

He never left her side while her slaves prepared her body. He demanded that she wore one of her black velvet dresses, and all of her jewels. And she had been offered many in all the years she had served as his priestess. He surveyed the slaves as they made her wear her golden hlað, gold necklaces and bracelets, fine stones at her fingers, a heavy belt made with gold and silver coins.

Attired like a queen, she was now ready for her funeral.

No barrow for her. She wasn’t to be buried like a commoner. Loki couldn’t risk her grave to be scavenged in the next decades. He led the procession to the foot of a mountain, opened a crack in the rock, and carried her body into the heart of the mountain, where he deposited her on a fur bed with infinite precautions. And then, after he finally managed to part, he went back to light, closed the fissure and sealed it back.

He burned the temple that night, and all their remaining belongings with it.

No-one would use them but her.

The building burned for two days, and he stayed there, crouching on his heels, watching the flames. Refusing any food and drink. Refusing any comfort. Refusing any word. Self-absorbed in his grief.

Chapter Text

XXV. Epilogue.

Cold sheets, oh, where's my love?
I am searching high
I'm searching low in the night

Ooh, does she know that we bleed the same?
Ooh, don't wanna cry but I break that way

Did she run away? Did she run away? I don't know
If she ran away, if she ran away, come back home
Just come home

SYML, “Where’s my love”

He was standing on the deck of the small ferry that linked the islands, the peak of his cap sheltering his eyes from the rain and spindrift, his inner ear allowing his balance to follow the sway of the waves, his hands deeply tucked in his pockets for warmth.

It was summer, though.

Puffins flew everywhere around the cliffs. Cute birds she hunted, centuries ago, running and climbing above the emptiness, to feed from their eggs and flesh. He could still picture her long hair unfurled by the wind and hear her joyful laughter at being so free, and his lips curled by their own volition at the memory.

“Have you ever been to Svínoy?” asked the sailor, a strong young man with light brown hair, his blue gaze honest in his open face.

“Yes. It seems to me it was ages ago.”

“Ah, this is some sort of pilgrimage, so?”

He chuckled darkly.

“You couldn’t be more right.”

He lost himself in the contemplation of the cliffs. They were untouched by time, proud and stern and defiant, facing the North Sea and the tantrums of its unpredictable weather.

A pilgrimage. The boy was right.

He was coming back in search of something that could make his memories more vivid, because after having casted a powerful spell that made Odin look like an old man deeply affected by an Alzheimer and abandoning him in an old people’s home, he had a few days of leisure. This particular spell, affecting Odin’s memory, unsettled him more than he first thought. It triggered with his own memory, with his own fear of oblivion. He wanted to remember her. To remember them.

Last time he went on Miðgard was a total disaster, so he’d better take advantage of his quick and quiet holidays to indulge in – what? Nostalgia?

The thought made him internally huff with a mix of self-contempt and indulgence.

He could have magically travelled here, of course, but it wasn’t the point. He had to remember the feeling of the sea under his feet, the majestic heights of the black cliffs as the boat sailed at the feet of the black steep walls, their summit hidden in thick clouds, the colours of the landscape seemingly absorbed by the timeless lava cliffs.

 The ferry sailed past a cliff and entered a cove.

This cove.

This place he had come to know so well for only a few years, for a mortal lifetime that was so short compared to his own life.

He had lived so much things since her. A few affairs. No real love, though, for he was afraid to commit and risk to love another lover. The void. Thanos. Torture. And then, Mother’s death, for which he felt atrociously guilty.

And yet, there wasn’t a week without a thought for her, even a thousand years later.

His grief was so deep, so painful at first. He felt so empty without her, and it was like a hole in his chest, in the very place of his heart, although the organ was persistent in beating.

Ásgeir’s wife gave birth to their last child a few weeks after Eyð died. As was the custom amongst these people, they named the little girl after her grandmother. Loki’s anger felt like a white-hot blade in his chest. It was sacrilegious. Blasphemous. How dared they? No-one could ever compare to his precious Eyð. Instead of risking to kill them – or maybe just harm them – in his state of mad fury, he went away, even though he made frequent return trips between Asgard and the island, being unable at first to stay away for too long.

In a way, he haunted the island for years.

When he realized, fifteen years later, that the girl looked like her, he fully stopped visiting for it was unbearably painful, and finally kept away.

But there he was now, on the deck of the ferry, heading to the very same island.

Why?

What use did he have in torturing himself with memories and grief? What good could it do to him?

He never chose mortal lovers again, but made efforts to fulfil his promise even though it cost him a lot. Drunken nights shared with faceless lovers, at first. A few months with one of Mother’s ladies-in-waiting. A few years with a Vana whom he felt affection for. Affection, fondness, tenderness. That was all. In spite of his promise, he’d been reluctant to surrender to his feelings again.

As the boat approached the concrete wharf, he examined the few houses. They weren’t like in his memories. No more turf roofs were to be seen. There were so many houses now, painted in bright colours. A small church, with white walls and a red roof. Even the dry-masonry paddock was nowhere to be seen, of course. All the buildings he had known must have been covered with new ones in the course of centuries.

“Any archaeological remains here?” he casually asked the sailor when he crossed the footbridge. There was no need bringing attention upon him with specific questions about, for instance, a pagan sanctuary. Ancient Norsemen built very few temples, preferring sacred woods and springs. No temples were ever built for him, save for the one he destroyed himself. There was no use appearing more curious than some random tourist.

The boy shrugged.

“Might be. But people possibly built their houses over ancient ones, you know.”

“Mmmh.”

Right.

Nothing to search for, so. Or nothing particularly remarkable at least.

“How long before the next departure?”

“About one hour.”

“Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.”

One hour was more than enough to have a stroll near the village. A disappointing stroll. There were some traces of things he had known – a rock, a shallow stream, the shape of a mountain. But every trace of the buildings he had careful maintained for her was gone. No trace of his temple, that had become their home for a few years, and that he had burned to the ground. Not even any sign of its foundations. Even the beach where she sat to watch the seals was not the same, its curve deeper under the erosion. He slowly shook his head in disillusion.

A bygone era.

Rain stopped as he went back to the landing dock, and with a sudden change in the weather that he had experienced so many times when he lived here, the sun shone through the clouds and washed over the land, its rays making the sea glow with large patches of blue and green, and he stopped in his tracks to admire his surroundings, smiling in spite of himself.

This severe landscape truly had a grandeur of its own.

An effortful breath and footsteps echoed behind him, and turning, he stepped back as he spotted a young woman with a heavy load of wool in her arms. As soon as she saw that he was making way for her, she walked confidently, tilting her face to him with a bright smile and a wink of her joyful brown eyes.

“Takk!”

Oh, this smile.

Frozen on place as if struck by lightning, Loki could only follow her with his gaze. Her long hair of burnt gold, tied in a pony-tail, was swaying in her back as she walked to the boat with her load.

Oh.

He smiled to himself again.

What did he feel right now? It was a light sadness, more like nostalgia. Not the sharp grief anymore. Not the deep melancholy. It was something lighter. But it was also intertwined with a more complex feeling, something akin to a sense of longing mixed with peaceful joy.

Eyð might be long dead, but her smile and appearance were immortal in a strange way, passed on in the family through genetic inheritance. Humans were predictable but they also could be very surprising, even unwittingly.

Loki walked to the ferry, his head low, a thin smile on his lips.

Now, he could leave the island and be in peace with it.