As I charge towards my target with increasing speed, my gaze locked on the opulent palace radiating ostentatious wealth, I envision all the ways in which I will make the King of Vannaheim quiver before my might.
I intend to provoke and belittle him, until he kneels before me, pleading. Such exhilarating thoughts surge through my mind, fuelled by the thunderous roars of my comrades, all eager to breach the imposing palace walls.
Drawing closer, we hurtle past a fancy fountain, but as we clear it, my eyes surely deceive me. For what I see cannot possibly be real. The grand doors, the colossal gateway to the palace that I had dreamed of conquering, suddenly begin opening.
A wave of fury washes over me as I come to a realisation. Just as the king deprived me of the glory of demolishing the wall, he now robs me of the triumph of tearing apart his palace. My desired final showdown, the siege meant to erupt into chaotic warfare, is thwarted.
A sickening feeling churns in my stomach. Being allowed to pass through the palace doors so easily feels akin to stealing a toy from a defenceless child—a shameful act unworthy of being immortalised in history or depicted on painted murals. None want to read about such a dull and uneventful encounter.
Aggravated, I command my men to halt, reining in my own horse just a few feet from the open palace doors. Dismounting, I advance alone, my keen Jotun eyes scouring the area for any hint of an ambush. I'm fully prepared for the treachery of the cowardly king—I even welcome it. But, as I draw nearer, I am surprised to find no visible guards stationed to defend the entrance.
Joben, my faithful friend and guard, voices his concerns from behind, urging me to pause and consider the potential danger that may lie ahead. But despite his intuition that the king might be luring me into a carefully laid trap, I find myself unable to resist the powerful pull that compels me forward. Like a magnet, I am drawn towards the palace until I stand squarely within its grand doorway, poised upon the threshold. My men remaining back.
In my peripheral vision, I catch glimpses of subtle movements from inside, the nervous twitches of armed men concealed within the shadows. Usually, I would confront them head-on, using my commanding presence to instil fear. But my attention remains captivated by the figure seated atop a set of grand steps—a woman, shrouded in darkness, yet unmistakably holding court from the solitary throne.
Could she be the queen? If so, the absence of her king, indicated by the empty chair beside her, sparks not only curiosity about his whereabouts, but also stirs a growing anger within me.
What kind of cowardly ruler allows his queen to face the stampede of Jotun's alone? We are a feared race. A mighty band of beasts. I can only imagine the fear coursing through her, maybe even tears behind the veil she wears.
My instincts now warn me that danger lurks within, for the king's non-attendance suggests he is hiding, ready to issue an unexpected order. However, in spite of this, I still find myself driven forward by the same mysterious force, my legs taking me across the threshold and into the palace.
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."
My judgments are rarely completely wrong. But on this occasion, I confess that I wholly misjudged the situation. Hearing the queen's unpredicted voice surprises me. I am not only struck by her firm confidence. But shocked that behind the toughness lies a sweet and innocent voice that reveals her youth.
This woman whom I had initially thought old and frail, is barely a woman after all. Now I see it: her small frame, her timid act of hiding behind a veil. These are the actions of a woman who has only recently reached adulthood. She conceals not her weathered appearance, but her inexperience.
Once more, I feel the irresistible pull drawing me closer, compelling me to take a large step in the direction of the queen. I fight it, but despite my efforts to resist, the urge feels stronger than ever.
In the midst of this struggle, a realisation dawns on me: This intense pull, this tug of invisible strings that guide me like a puppet, is undeniably linked to her. Though I can't pinpoint the exact reason, I am almost certain that it was the queen's presence that beckoned me to first venture inside.
I hear the clank of the guards' armour thrumming throughout the room at my hasty approach towards the queen. I cast them a quick glance and let out a chuckle.
"Fear not, brave men. I have no intention of attacking a woman, not even one with thorns." I grin, reassuring them before returning my focus to the tanzanite blue of the queens eyes, which are still frustratingly obscured by the veil.
Why am I suddenly annoyed that I cannot see her face?
"You dare mock me with your laughter? Do not make me regret extending you a welcome," she warns.
Noting the seriousness in her voice, I suppress any hint of amusement. Typically, I avoid provoking women, taking no delight in pestering them. However, there's an irresistible urge to tease this particular one.
Perhaps it is her assertiveness or her intense gaze that, even through the veil, seem to penetrate through my armour. Whatever it is, it stirs something within me—a mischievous pleasure in stoking her simmering anger further. By aggravating her more, I ponder whether I can entice her into revealing her face. The prospect of this excites me.
"So, the opening of the doors was not an attempt to strip me of my triumph in conquering your defences, but rather a genuine welcome?" I inquire, my suspicions evident.
She hesitates, a clear indication that my doubts are correct. She and her king fully intended to deprive me of my victory, disguising it as a gesture of welcome.
"In truth," she begins, "I desire no bloodshed, neither from your side nor mine. However, it is true that I do not wish for my barricade to be torn down, leaving Vannaheim vulnerable."
As her words sink in, it prompts me to wonder: why would a realm, at peace with its neighbours, be concerned about vulnerability should its wall become breached?
"If I destroy your great Vanir wall, surely your neighbouring realms will come to your aid in rebuilding it. Or could it be that your cowardly king has made enemies?" My lips curl into a grin as I eagerly await her response, slyly hoping she will react at my jibe against her king.
"My king is anything but a coward!" she yells, her fists clenched once more.
Ah, there is it. That fiery spark. How I enjoy the blazing rage she directs at me. It is odd. I came here for a battle, but now all I want is to make this determined newly anointed queen flustered. I am not sure why I feel the need to do this. All I know is that hearing her and observing her actions piques my interest.
"And both my iron gate, and my palace doors, were opened to greet you! ... so you will not destroy anything!" She continues, her voice crackling with rage.
I notice that she avoids directly responding to my claim about enemies. Something is off, and I can't stop wondering what it is.
"To extend such a welcome is hardly Vannaheim's reputation," I say, raising my eyebrow. "Did your king not design and construct the largest wall in history, just to keep people out? Please forgive me for not immediately believing that this greeting is genuine. I eagerly anticipate the imminent ambush."
"An ambush?" she repeats, surprise seeping into her voice.
"Indeed," I reply, "And it begs the question. Will your king execute a surprise attack via the secret side entrance? Or will he perhaps strike from the outside, catching my men off guard?..."
Her veil flutters with the gust of her breath as she huffs, evidently amused by my line of questioning.
"I regret to inform you. There will be no such ambush. No fight to incite your wrath."
I narrow my eyes in suspicion, but her tone conveys a convincing sincerity. Still, I sweep my gaze across the room, pointing to the concealed door, and continue to interrogate.
"While he's using you as a pawn and hiding in a fortified room, you're saying that your king won't deploy guards to storm that secret door?" I query again.
Her head moves in the direction I'm pointing, and she fidgets slightly on the spot, revealing her surprise at my knowledge of her hidden passageway. But I am anything but thorough; I know the ins and outs of each palace I invade.
"It is impressive that you have familiarised yourself with the layout of my palace. And, yes, you are correct; there is a hidden chamber, but I assure you that no such attack is planned."
Again, her words do not convey lies. I detect no deception. And this only irritates me. What kind of king am I dealing with? His absence and lack of a planned attack are unusual, leaving me unable to determine his motives.
"What kind of pitiful ruler is he? Here you are, his queen, facing a Jotun army alone, and you claim your king has no plans to attack?"
"Hold your tongue!" she demands, her voice sharp. "Speak ill of my king again, and I will personally ensure your tongue's removal!"
I ignore her short temper and empty threat; I've had enough, I want to see this so-called king of Vannaheim. I know the only way to do so is to continue to provoke his queen.
"Even in the midst of a raging battle, which I can start with a single click of my fingers, the king does not show his face. Is he aware that I can do anything to you?"
Her fiery temper, filled with devotion to her king, appears to calm as my words take effect. I'm not sure which of my statements resonated with her more: the part where I said I could start the fight with a single snap, or the part where I told her I could do whatever I wanted with her. My guess is the latter.
I smirk and boldly approach her rigid form that is still halfway down the steps. Her guards, who lurk along the shadowy walls, all advance in response, exposing themselves and preparing for any battle that I initiate. But, to my surprise, I see the queen raise a single hand in the air, halting their advance.
I watch as she gradually descends, her black corseted gown trailing behind her. My mouth dries as she reaches the bottom step and begins to approach me, no trace of fear evident.
Surprisingly, she comes to a stop just a foot away, tilting her head upwards as if to examine my towering Jotun form. A tinge of nervousness rises within me, and I can't help but wonder what she thinks of me, of my blue frost giant form. Definitely disgusted. All other realms think similarly. Why would she be any different?
I peer at her remarkably as she takes another step, disregarding the nervous guard who shakes his head incessantly, ready to leap in should I make a move.
No person has ever willingly ventured this close to a Jotun before. Only those defending their lives. Where did this courage come from? Just a moment ago I found her frozen in place, but now she stands before me, no trembling in sight.
"If you're aiming to unnerve me with words insinuating anything intimate, sexual, even, it won't work. I know full well you can only inflict pain, your touch tortuous. With such pain, I'd pass out fairly quick. Any pleasure you derive from performing sadistic acts will be wasted on me."
Her words surprised me even more. Was she unaware that I have another form that allows me to touch her without causing harm? A rising thrill rushes through me and a sparkle glints in my eyes.
"Oh, darling, there's so much more I can do to you—where we both find pleasure. And there will be no relief in losing consciousness."
She scoffs from beneath her veil, clearly disbelieving what I am saying.
"Fine." I grin. "Allow me to prove it to you. But if I do, you must lift the veil and reveal yourself to me."
"Why would I agree for you to inflict pain upon me?" She questions.
My grin turns into a mischievous smirk. Pain is not what I desire for her, pleasure on the other hand...
"You won't feel any pain. You have my word," I offer a promise.
"Are Jotun's known for keeping their word?" She retaliates.
"I vowed to invade your land on this very day, didn't I?" My amused tone causes her anger to rise. Her glare emerging through the black lace.
"Fine! But if you so much as mark my skin, my guards will swoop on you long before you can snap your fingers to alert your men. Should you be found proven wrong, you must leave. Taking nothing into your possession from Vannaheim."
"DEAL!" I say aloud, possibly a little too enthusiastically. But my curiosity to see her face is as strong as the force that initially compelled me inside. "Are you ready?" I ask, preparing my magic, a titillating buzz swooshing through my veins.
"Just so you know, beneath this veil, I'm smiling arrogantly. You've indeed wasted your journey." Her tone clearly indicates that she believes she's won.
In response, I simply grin and extend my arms outward, allowing my green magic to manifest in each palm. The emerald wisps travel down my forearms and into my body, engulfing me completely before I magically revert to my Asgardian form.
Now dressed in my fine Asgardian leathers, I look down at my pale hands in front of me. It's been a long time since I've taken on this form; in truth, it feels different, as if I'm wearing a long-forgotten suit that needs to be worn in again.
"What in the holy Valhalla!" I hear the queen exclaim, followed by the whispered murmurs of her guards, all of whom have witnessed my transformation.
I lift my gaze from my hands, expecting to see her fleeing towards her guards for protection. However, she remains rigid, her form unmoving. It baffles me. Here I am, in a more safer form, fully capable of capturing her and inflicting more than just an icy touch, yet she stays.
In this moment, a powerful urge consumes me—to witness whatever look is on her face, whether it be one of approval or disdain. With a quick stride, I close the distance between us, catching her off guard as I raise my hands and gently lift the veil from her face.
Immediately, I am struck speechless. Never had I imagined that such a unique beauty, gazing at me in equal disbelief, lurked behind the veil. What's even more perplexing is that I see no malice or hatred behind her surprise.
Even with the pale milkiness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes, she is visually stunning, captivating. But immediately, concern grows in my chest. She is a young woman; she should not appear so pale, should not bear such dark circles. She is in her prime, her youth. What could be wrong with her?
In my haste to inquire about her well-being, I blurt out, "Are you sick?"
It wasn't the most gentlemanly choice of words, evident from the immediate anger that flashes across her face.
"No! I am perfectly well!" she snaps, retreating a few steps.
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that..." I pause, my words trailing off as a realisation hits me. If her pale complexion, dark under-eyes, and thin frame aren't caused by illness, could it be that her king is mistreating her? Is he abusing her?
Anger surges within me, mingling with my concern, and my rage becomes apparent. I approach her, gripping her waist and pulling her closer to me, almost as though I wish to protect her.
A stunned expression takes hold of her face as my touch registers. In that moment, I feel a rush of tingling sensations course through my entire body as our skin meets. It's electric, as if two magnets have finally come together, fulfilling the long-awaited pull and completing their destined connection.
"How did you acquire this appearance?" She whispers, her gaze fixated on my face, taking in the stark contrast to my Jotun form. I can imagine it must be quite a shock for her to see me looking 'normal,' considering that my Jotun visage is considered highly abnormal by most.
"I was brought up elsewhere, bestowed with this form at birth by those that raised me. It was all I knew until I embraced my true self and reclaimed my birthright," I explain, my thumb gently caressing her cheekbone.
With the look of curiosity in her eyes, I sense that the Queen wishes to ask me further questions. However, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupts the moment, prompting her to divert her gaze towards someone standing behind me. I assume it must be her ever-watchful guard, who rushes forward, feeling uneasy about our close contact. Surprisingly, she shakes her head in a gentle dismissal, preventing him from intervening and breaking up our moment.
Our eyes remain locked, never wavering from each other. In that moment, I discern something familiar within her eyes, something I know all too well. It's sadness. However, hers runs deeper, concealing a fresh pain buried within them, like a newly dug grave.
"Who hurt you?" I found myself asking, my voice taking on a serious tone. She frowns, appearing uncertain about my question. "You carry a deep sorrow. A sorrow I have only witnessed in one other."
I notice her eyes growing glassy before she quickly lowers her head, hiding the tears she wishes to conceal. With tenderness, I take hold of her chin, gently tilting her head upward to meet my gaze. A single tear runs down her cheek, revealing the vulnerable young woman beneath the facade of a hardened queen.
As she raises her hand to wipe away the tear, I stop her, placing her hand firmly at her side. "Wiping away the tears only obscures the pain. Let them flow. Embrace them. And then strive to never allow the person who makes you cry to hurt you again. I can help you. Just tell me where your abusive king is."
The sadness that had overtaken her expression suddenly fades, as if she has donned a mask, and she becomes stoic. She forcefully removes my hand from touching her and hastily wipes away any trace of her tears.
"I warned you; insult my king again, and I'll rip out your tongue!" she declares, lunging at me with claws outstretched like a cat. Instinctively, I wrap my hands around her waist and lift her off the ground, trying my best not to harm her as she relentlessly tries to pry open my mouth and reach for my tongue.
"You're insane!" I yell, struggling to defend myself against her merciless assault. Despite her small stature, she possesses remarkable strength. Her nimble hands move swiftly, out manoeuvring me at every turn.
"L-let go of my t-tongue," I manage to sputter, my words slurred and difficult to articulate as she successfully grabs hold of the tip.
As I hear her men snickering, finding amusement in the spectacle unfolding before them. I silently pray to the gods that none of my own soldiers are witnessing this humiliating display. I don't need an aerial view to know that I appear as the weaker party in this dangerous dance.
My eyes widen in alarm as I hear her command one of her guards to bring her a dagger, fully intent on carrying out her threat of cutting out my tongue. It's now clear to me that she's deadly serious, confirming my earlier conclusion that she is indeed crazy.
Panic surges through me as I tighten my grip on her waist, my fingers digging into her skin and leaving marks in the process. But I have no other choice; my tongue hangs in the balance.
Amidst the chaos, I hear a series of footsteps approaching and the distinct sound of a dagger being unsheathed from a belt. To my disbelief, one of the guards is actually complying with her request, providing her with a weapon. It is said that Vanir people are known for their resistance to squeamishness. I'd always thought it was mere folklore, dismissing the tales of their gory brutality when in acts of war, but here I am, engaged in a desperate struggle to prevent the queen from severing my tongue. It seems the Vanir are more brutal than Jotun's.
Feeling the immense pressure of the situation, with the threat of losing my tongue looming over me, I realise I must do whatever it takes to prevent her from obtaining a blade. Despite her youth, I'm acutely aware that she's had some form of combat training. The thought of what she could do with a weapon is both haunting, and oddly arousing. Never have I experienced a hard cock and a shiver down my spine at the same time.
With a quick decision, I abandon my efforts to push her away and instead draw her closer. This unexpected move catches her off guard, momentarily halting her frenzied movements.
In this moment, with her pulled tightly against me, her delicious breasts come into contact with my face. As I look up at her from below, a mischievous smirk plays on my lips. But before she could react to my teasing, I quickly use my hands to grasp the nape of her neck, pulling her mouth towards mine and seizing the opportunity to thwart her gory intentions.
I boldly kiss her, holding her mouth hostage with mine. My theory is simple. She cannot take my tongue if she's unable to grasp it.