Lost Treasures - A Loki love Story

Hold your tongue

I know I should pause and assess the situation, but the unseen spell binds me, making me powerless to resist. From what I can tell, there is no apparent evidence of magical manipulation, yet I am bewitched, with no logical explanation for being drawn in.

"Stop! Halt your advance, Jotun."

At the sound of a commanding voice, I come to an abrupt stop within the very heart of the room. At first I believe this forceful voice belongs to the king, finally making an appearance, but as I observe a weathered-looking guard emerge from the shadows, it is clear that this is no king, but a seasoned protector.

Where is this cowardly king hiding?

"That's close enough," the guard orders as I take another step closer. While I would normally ignore such a directive from a basic guard, I observe the queen's dainty feet peeking out from beneath her black dress, fidgeting uncomfortably. It's clear that she is anxious, and I have no desire to distress any woman. That's reserved solely for the king.

I nod to the guard as a sign of compliance and remain in the centre of the room. From this vantage point I have a clearer view of the Queen and the armed men who line the walls.

Immediately I notice the entire palace emits a sombre mood. Unusual, as Vannaheim is known for its colourful hues and vibrant décor. Here, the rainbow seems to have been stripped away, leaving only shades of black and grey. Even the guards match the queens gloomy attire, their black armour offering effective camouflage and blending with the shadows.

I ponder whether this is a calculated tactic—a display of black, a symbol of death, meant to intimidate me and my army. A snort escapes me, and I can't help but smirk as I lift my chin, peering at the queen perched high on her throne. I'm not afraid of the colour black. This tactic, undoubtedly devised by her absent king, is futile.

My unintentional snort appears to have annoyed the queen, as evidenced by her nails clenching against the armrests of her throne. Gently, she rises from her seat, her regal stature holding my gaze. Despite the fact that her eyes are veiled by black lace, her piercing blue orbs are visible, latching onto me.

I note her corseted gown, cinched tightly at the waist. Curiously, she seems to intentionally emphasise her small stature with such a tortuous contraption, though the reasoning behind such a choice eludes me. In truth, she appears in need of nourishment; a bit more substance would do her well.

As she gradually descends the stairs, the shadows that hid her fade away as her figure passes through rays of light. Each time, it highlights the intricate lace that adorns her arms, yet reveals her pale skin beneath. It makes me wonder, is she ill? Only the sick display no tinge of colour. Or perhaps she is a woman of frailty, hiding her withered form under a veil?

I surmise that she is old, and so to avoid causing stress to an elderly woman, I use soft words to soothe her feeble heart.

"You need not be afraid, Queen of Vannaheim," I reassure in my most pleasant voice. "A delicate flower like yourself has no place in the matters of war. Depart to retrieve your inept king, I have much to discuss." While I purposefully use gentler phrases to ease her wary soul, I also used words to provoke and draw out the cowardly king. If he is listening, lying in wait somewhere, any king would react if labelled incompetent.

I had no intention to strike the nerve of the queen, but my insult towards her king appears to have done just that. Evidenced by her unexpected stall halfway down the steps, and her tightly clenched fists. It's unfortunate that it's her nerve rather than the kings, who I'd expected to have rushed out to defend himself by now. But he still hides.

The quiet is suddenly broken when I hear an unexpected voice address me.

"I assure you, King Loki of Jotunheim," the queen declares with the firmness befitting a seasoned queen, one not as scared as I had initially thought. "I am no delicate flower. I possess thorns that can prick."