The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training || Loki x Reader

Chapter 44

It stays like that for the next two weeks. Tense. Barely any words spoken between you and your family. Even Carlie, who wasn't there for the actual ambush, picks up on the energy in the house, and falls silent.

Finally, the last night approaches. You lie in bed, remembering the last time you had a night like this. Two years ago, unable to sleep; sixteen and scared out of your mind to meet the man you had only ever seen as a monster.

You don't disagree with everything your mom said. You haven't forgiven Loki for the battle of New York, or the takeover of your planet, or taking you and the other Chosen ones away from your families. You know you'll have to talk to him at some point, though you plan to postpone that talk for as long as possible. But you can't undo the feelings that have developed. You can't undo the fact that he has shown so much genuine kindness—not just to you, but to Albert, and Meg, and countless others. Perhaps he was being manipulated into the battle of New York, and everything surrounding it.

Or perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps people truly can change.

Regardless of which it is, you know this much is true: he is not a monster. Maybe he was once, but you've seen what real monsters look like, and he isn't one of them.

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For the past week or so, you've slept fitfully (at best). When the sun peeks through your half-broken, decade-old window blinds, you close your stinging, bleary eyes and groan. Great. Another all-nighter, the perfect end to your disastrous stay here.

The alarm clock on your dresser isn't due to go off for a few hours at least, but what's the point? You know your chances at even a few hours' rest are slim to none. Instead, you sit up. The floor is freezing; you hop across it to reach the sock drawer, trying not to mind too much. After all, you'll be back soon enough to the eternal summer of the palace.

When you aren't fretting about how you've seemingly managed to alienate yourself from everyone you love at home, you've been trying to prepare yourself for the arrival of the other girls. Before you leave to visit their hometowns, they'll be spending a day or two here. Not in your house—you'll all be relocated to a hotel nearby—but you're still nervous. The one semi-saving-grace of your time here has been that, outside of discussion, you've kept the world of the competition and the world of your little, modern town very, very far apart. No balls, no afternoon lessons, pants nearly everyday. It's not a perfect solution, but it seems at least more manageable than whatever the hell is going to happen when you try to smush those two worlds together. Lady Amara gave you all itineraries before you left, so it's not her fault. If anything, it's really just a testament to your powers of procrastination that you have next to no idea what's in store later today. You vaguely remember something about some formal event—whatever. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

If you can't sleep, you figure you may as well head downstairs. Make some tea, watch the sun rise from the living room couch. You make it about halfway down the steps before you see something that makes you stop in your tracks.

Even this early in the morning, there's enough light for you to see the decorations hung from the living room walls. Streamers. A few balloons. On the biggest wall, directly across from the stairs, is the dollar-store H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y banner, with your name Sharpied in the spare space at the bottom.

You tiptoed into the kitchen to check the calendar. Yep—today's the date. How could you not have noticed? Had your life gotten that crazy that you'd forgotten your own birthday?

Apparently.

Your mom, evidently, had not.

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You awake to a nudge at your forehead, and a whispered "(Y/N)?" You open one eye up just a bit, then the other, as Carlie calls behind her. "She's up!"

The living room is decorated the same as it was earlier. You realize with a start that you must have crashed on the couch for a few hours. Well, at least I got some sleep.

As you sit up, Mom enters the living room, flanked by Dad and Erik; Carlie remains at your side. Mom's holding a plate with what looks—and smells—like chocolate chip pancakes. and a "19" candle stuck in the top.

"Well," Mom says, once they've finished singing and the plate has been placed on the table before you, "make a wish!"

There's no animosity in her voice, or her face; just a hopeful half-smile that hurts your heart even more. You conjure up a smile of your own, leaning in with closed eyes to blow out the candle.

For the first time since the disastrous dinner of two weeks before, you find yourself at the dining room table with your parents and siblings, eating pancakes and just...talking. Tentatively at first, of course, but soon the tense small-talk dissolves into fits of laughter, and inside jokes, and a particularly epic battle in which you and Erik tried to douse each other with maple syrup.

For the first time in nearly two weeks, you can breathe again.