"So today is the day, isn't it?" I inquire, my face etched with worry as I turn to Ivor.
"Yes, my queen. It is."
"And are you certain that no other letters have arrived? Ones that might shed light on why Loki is returning to my realm?" I ask, holding up the most recent letter, received just a few days ago.
It is notably different from the poetic one he had sent to me before. This one gives no details. It simply states that he'll be visiting on a specific date, which happens to be today.
"None have been received, my queen. And after the unfortunate incident of reading the last letter, I assure you, any future correspondence will be promptly ignored by me and handed over to you."
I resist the urge to snort a laugh at Ivor's discomfort and purse my lips. He deserves it for reading my letter without permission.
"Well then. Since his letter omits the reasons for his visit, I assume it's because he doesn't wish to leave written evidence of his mistake. The mistake that is the monumental error of accusing Vannaheim of harbouring the orb. Such a note could be used to shame him. Waved around in front of realm leaders to humiliate him. Not that I would stoop so low." I shoot Ivor a little smirk, "this should be a joyous occasion. He is personally coming to fulfil our binding agreement and bestow upon me my reward."
"The vault will be replenished with gold!"
I turn my gaze toward one of my high council members, known for his greed, and shoot him a glare.
"Who cares about gold, Parlo? The sacred root of his tree will enrich our soil immeasurably. I desire nothing else."
My words wipe the greedy smile from his face.
"The king tirelessly sought a piece of the root from other realms when we first lost our tree, to no avail. Yet you have accomplished it in a single meeting," Ivor remarks proudly.
"Well, let's not celebrate prematurely, Ivor. We must wait until it is firmly planted in our soil and see new shoots of life start to grow."
"Very true, dear Annalise," he replies solemnly.
"But it's undeniably exciting, isn't it?" I squeal, my face lighting up.
Ivor smiles warmly. "It most certainly is, my queen.
I steal a quick glance at the time, becoming acutely aware that the hour of Loki's arrival is rapidly approaching. With a deep breath, I smooth down the fabric of my black dress, trying to calm the waves of nervousness that wash over me. However, amidst my preparations, I catch Ivor eyeing my sombre outfit, a hint of sorrow flickering within his eyes.
"The time for grieving is long past, Annalise. Perhaps we can transition to wearing different colours now," he suggests gently. "It may cheer our people."
"Mourning has no set timeline, Ivor. I can't simply turn off my grief. No, I will continue to wear black until the pain in my heart subsides. But you may give permission for the palace staff to transition their uniforms and adorn the palace in our vibrant blue hues if you wish."
I expected Ivor to be pleased or at least satisfied with my response, but instead, he appears unsettled.
"You know, a loss like this never stops hurting, Annalise. Sometimes you have to rip off the bandage and carry on with life."
"Then, if this pain will forever reside within me, I have no need for the contents of my wardrobe. Please donate them to those in need. For I dress to reflect how I feel, not merely for the occasion."
I hastily walk towards the door that leads to the throne room where I plan to await Loki's arrival. Surprisingly, Ivor doesn't follow; he remains behind, his sadness lingering in the royal suite.
I know he means well with his encouragement to move on, to not dwell on my father's passing. But my father was the only man I knew and loved deeply. Moving on is an arduous process, one I am still grappling with.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
"He has arrived, my queen."
My heart skips a beat as the guard's voice cuts through the silence, announcing Loki's arrival.
Rising from my throne, I steel myself for the sight of the doors opening wide, expecting to see him burdened with defeat, the root and helmet in tow.
However, as the grand doors begin to part, Loki's towering figure casts a long shadow across the threshold. In his Jotun form, he is unmistakable and imposing, but what captures my gaze are the large golden horns not in his hands but majestically perched atop his head. They are even bigger than I had imagined.
His eyes meet mine, filled with sparkling mischief, and a sly smile curls his lips.
A sinking feeling takes hold as confusion swirls within me. Why is he wearing my helmet, looking so pleased? Where is the promised gold? The precious root? I expected him to arrive with a face full of displeasure, tinged with the sour taste of defeat, yet here he stands, wearing that unnerving smile and exuding an unexpected air of confidence.
This is not the scenario I had rehearsed in my mind.
With small, nervous steps, I descend the stairs, my dainty shoes click-clacking on the polished floors with each stride. Although my mind teems with a flurry of thoughts, I focus intently on not tripping over. These heels, plucked from the depths of my wardrobe, bear a layer of dust, revealing their lack of use and my inexperience in walking in them.
I ponder my next move, weighing the options: should I cut straight to the chase and demand the root, or should I engage in a more gracious conversation to uphold the decorum expected of a queen? I'm torn, but I suppose it's only right, considering he will soon be offering his apologies as he grovels beneath the weight of his grave error.
Consumed in my thoughts on how best to start the conversation, I realise too late that I've already closed the gap between us. I halt abruptly, and he jumps back, widening the gap considerably more.
His movement catches me off guard, and my brow furrows in puzzlement. During our previous encounter, he had deliberately encroached upon my personal space, disregarding any boundaries. So why, in this moment, is he suddenly showing me consideration and maintaining a respectful distance?
Sensing my confusion, he addresses the unspoken question lingering in my thoughts.
"You wear heels today," he states, glancing down at my delicate open-toe shoes.
"And what of it?" I snap, feeling slightly self-conscious. I should have just worn my flats.
"The way you walk in them suggests you are not accustomed to the added height," he adds, and instantly, memories of Ivor's laughter come flooding back. Earlier, he had watched me waddle like a duck in these shoes and jokingly asked if I was joining the other waterfowl at the pond. At the time, I dismissed his remarks as light-hearted humour, but now I see his comment rings true, and I feel embarrassed.
"I don't wish for you to stumble into my deadly form," Loki explains, revealing his motive for retreating.
It is not consideration for my personal space after all, but for my safety.
His gaze lingers on my shoes a moment longer and I shift uncomfortably. "My eyes are up here!" I scold, feeling suddenly exposed under his intense scrutiny of my barely covered feet.
He briefly lifts his eyes to meet mine before they compulsively wander downward again. Instantly, I regret my choice of footwear. It's clear he has an unusual fascination with feet—the way he ogles my naked toes.
I chose these ankle-straining heels in hopes they would make me appear more imposing in his presence, but I now realise my calculations are way off. No amount of added height can lift me out of his overwhelming shadow. He looms over me, whatever form he assumes.
"I am more than capable of remaining upright," I reply curtly, stepping forward to assert my dominance and show I'm not intimidated by him, even in his Jotun form.
"My apologies, Annalise. I did not mean to offend. Please, let us start anew," he offers.
I nod, granting his request, and he immediately resumes speaking.
"You look radiant, positively divine. And I have a gift for you," he adds, almost excitedly.
My heart begins a wild dance as I'm convinced the gift he is about to present is the root I so deeply desire.
"May I present you with this gown, intricately fashioned by the very best seamstress," he announces.
I gaze at Loki with a puzzled expression as one of his guards steps forward, holding up a concealed dress. Loki unzips it and reveals the garment, removing it from its protective cover.
"Do you like it? Its colour is unique, exclusively invented by myself, drawing inspiration from the different shades of your eyes," he explains.
I stare at the dress, a mesmerising blend of emerald and tanzanite. While I am impressed by the craftsmanship and the inventive colour, I can't help but feel a pang of disappointment. Where is the root? The piece of Yggdrasil's tree that I desperately longed for? He should be presenting me with what our deal entailed, not garments.
"You are disappointed..." he states solemnly, taking note of the expression on my face.
"No, not at all. The dress is sublime, truly unique in every way," I respond, attempting to conceal my inner turmoil. "The cut is delicate and modest. But I..." I hesitate, my voice trailing off.
My wardrobe is filled with black, and it will remain so for the foreseeable future. My grief preventing me from embracing colours. It's not that I don't like this dress. It's just the beauty of it would go to waste on me.
"Please accept my gift, Annalise. I implore you."
Despite the intimidating battle helmet he wears, his eyes reveal vulnerability. It's difficult to refuse him when he looks at me with such pleading, puppy-like eyes.
I force a smile. "I accept with gratitude, King Loki. Thank you."
I motion for a maid to come forward and take the dress, but as she approaches Loki in his Jotun form, she hesitates, keeping a safe distance and unwilling to get too close. I see the fear in her eyes, but more importantly, I witness the hurt in Loki's.
I shouldn't feel any remorse. I shouldn't care about sparing his feelings. After all, he invaded my land without any regard for me and my people. Yet, here I am, feeling guilty about the discomfort my maid causes him.
I steal a quick glance at Ivor, who shakes his head excessively, knowing exactly what the look on my face means. But despite his disapproving gesture, I disregard his concerns and choose to trust my instincts. With purposeful steps, I advance towards Loki, my hand outstretched cautiously. "If you don't mind, I'll take it from here," I say, gesturing towards the dress.
Loki looks at me, his eyes filled with astonishment at my willingness to come so close to him.
"I can feel the warmth of your skin," he murmurs, taking slow, measured breaths as if afraid that any deep inhalation would cause our chests to brush against each other, given how close I stand.
I, too, feel the coolness emanating from his skin, sending prickles up my arms and causing visible goosebumps to appear. Loki notices, his eyes widening slightly as he observes the effect he has on me.
"I caused that?" he asks, his eyes fixating on the vivid peppering of my skin. "Does it hurt?"
I glance at him curiously. "Have you never experienced goosebumps before?" I ask, incredulous.
He shakes his head slowly, surprising me with his admission. His response leads me to assume that the Jotun do not encounter such reactions, given their naturally icy skin.
"They don't hurt," I explain. "But they provide an intriguing sensation—a tingling. It's quite pleasant," I admit.
He continues to observe the raised bumps on my arms before a wide grin spreads across his face, stretching a mile wide. "So, what you're saying is, I've caused you pleasure?"
I should have expected that he'd weave a lewd remark into an otherwise pleasant conversation. A shame. It had felt genuine and sincere until he diverted it.
Without another word, I promptly take the dress from him, ensuring not to let our skin graze.
"I hope to see you wear it one day," he whispers. "You will elevate the dress's beauty when adorned on your body."
I hadn't planned to respond, but the words slip out almost involuntarily. "Maybe one day the gloom from my heart will lift enough for you to see me wear it. It is a pretty colour."
My words surprise both him and myself. And feeling a slight flush on my face, I quickly turn and make my way towards my maid, handing her the dress. She curtsies and scurries off, joining the other palace workers who keep a wary distance from the Jotun guests.
As I turn back around, I catch Loki whispering to his guard, their conversation ceasing when they realise I'm watching them.
"My guard, Joben, would appreciate access to the amenities," Loki explains. "The journey has been long, and the warmer climate has left him feeling queasy."
"Oh, of course," I reply, noting the frown on Joben's face, clearly displaying his discomfort. "One of my guards will escort you," I add.
"It's not necessary. I know my way, Queen Annalise," Joben responds directly to me, and I find it somewhat peculiar. While I am aware that Loki familiarised himself with the layout of my palace's secret rooms in preparation for his invasion, I hadn't realised that his knowledge extended to knowing the exact location of the bathroom. It seems he and his guards have gone to great lengths to acquaint themselves with even the most mundane details of my realm.
"Very well, you may proceed. If you have any trouble finding us, a guard will be able to assist you," I inform him.
He nods in acknowledgment and struts away, leaving Loki and me in an uncomfortable silence.
"Shall we sit and discuss?" Loki proposes, breaking the uneasy quiet. I find it strange that he wishes to stick around. Typically a person proven wrong would simply deliver the forfeited prizes and depart. But perhaps he desires refreshments and idle chit-chat before presenting me with my victorious spoils.
As we make our way to the royal suites, I gesture for Loki to take a seat on the chair opposite me. Before he does, he surprisingly transforms out of his Jotun form now he's no longer under the watchful eye of his guard and instead, sits beside me, his knee lightly brushing against mine.
"No king of Vannaheim joining us today?" he asks suspiciously.
Clearing my throat, I respond, aware that this question is inevitable. "He is around, but he is occupied with more pressing matters. Perhaps another time."
Loki nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, and casually remarks, "No rush. I find the company of his queen quite sufficient." As he speaks, he inches even closer, prompting me to shift subtly down on the sofa.
His relaxed dismissal of the king's absence is unexpected. During his previous visit, or rather, his assault on Vannaheim, he was insistent on meeting my king. Now, it seems he no longer cares if the king makes an appearance. It makes me wonder what has changed?
Nonetheless, it works in my favour. I no longer have to come up with excuses for the king's absence. A small relief in the complexity of our interactions.
"Tell me about yourself, Annalise." Loki's surprise question startles me. Have we delved into personal matters so quickly?
"Anything at all," he continues, "your dreams, aspirations, favourite pastimes, a cherished childhood memory, or tales of your parents and where you grew up. I want to know everything"
His request sends a jolt through me, accelerating my pulse. I know nothing about King Loki, only that he is a ruler who takes pride in instilling fear and commanding respect through intimidation. Revealing intimate aspects of my life could be dangerous. A step that leads to my downfall. After all, one should never bare their soul to the enemy. Surely he knows that?
Or perhaps he considers me just a naïve young queen, easily swayed and manipulated to answer his quizzing questions.
"I... um... I wanted to express in person," I start, hoping to steer the conversation towards a more neutral topic, "for the flowers you sent and for the Lirra bark. It is a precious piece of history you have shared with me. My people have been enthralled by it."
"And you? Are you enthralled by it, Annalise? Does it bring you happiness?" he asks.
Though his question strikes me as odd, I find it to be less intrusive compared to his previous inquiries. so I allow myself to answer it. "It... it does bring me happiness," I reply.
He moves closer, and with the arm of the chair against my side, I have nowhere else to go. His gaze is intense, deeply searching. "Then why do I still see sadness in your eyes?" He whispers.
As his daring statement hangs in the air, the intensity of the moment stretching. We linger, staring at each other for a duration that borders on inappropriate. However, the sudden opening of the door provides a much needed interruption. Joben, Loki's guard, enters, and I seize the opportunity to escape Loki's forced proximity.
I stand, and swiftly offer my seat to Joben, who looks at me in surprise. I doubt a royal has ever relinquished their seat for him before, not even his own king.
The guard takes a seat beside Loki, who's now miraculously transformed back into his Jotun form. I promptly sit across from them but catch the subtle nod they exchange. It causes a sense of unease to wash over me. I can't quite pinpoint it, but something feels off.
A pattern starts to emerge, making me wonder why Loki always changes into his Jotun form when his guards are around. Does he feel they won't respect him if he doesn't resemble them? It raises curiosity in me.
"So, King Loki, let's get to the heart of the matter," I begin, eager to move forward with the point of his visit. I reach for the teapot on the table between us, checking if the tea has steeped to my liking. Finding it hasn't, I leave it to continue brewing. Of the few things I dislike, weak tea definitely holds a prominent spot near the top.
"Your letter mentioned your arrival today but you conveniently omitted any details about our agreement. As the victorious winner of our binding deal, I'm particularly interested in the whereabouts of my prize, especially the root." I emphasise the word "binding" to remind him of the consequences if he were to break our terms.
I observe as Loki settles back into his chair, assuming a relaxed posture by spreading his legs wide. Unintentionally, my focus veers downwards, lingering momentarily on the noticeable bulge.
By the time I realise my action and meet his eyes again, his smirk reveals he's caught the brief lapse in my gaze and an instant flush creeps into my cheeks. The fiery heat I feel is as much from embarrassment as it is from the irritation at being so easily baited. How could I have fallen for such a transparent ploy? He did that on purpose, I am certain of it.
"Well," he begins, "I didn't mention the deal in my letter because I wanted to present myself personally when the time came to gloat. Surely, you've noticed the magnificent helmet crowning my head. I must emphasise, it's not the only impressive thing attached to my body." His smirk doesn't falter as he adjusts his lap in his seat, drawing attention to his lower regions. "I did mention that I would wear my horns when it came time to claim my prize. And my prize, as per our deal, is you, dear Annalise."
I scoff, amused by his attempt to convince me that he's won. "I have searched the vaults thoroughly, and no such orb exists there. You had ample time to check your own vaults, Loki. I won't waste any more time allowing you to go and check again. Please send for the root, the gold, and before you leave, you can place the helmet by the door. I'll try it on for size later."
Loud laughter suddenly erupting jolts me, fuelling my irritation, but doesn't shatter my confidence.
"How dare you mock me with such laughter," I respond, my tone firm. "We had a deal, a binding contract. Fulfil your obligations or face the consequences of forfeit. I'm prepared to enforce the terms of penalty, engaging in combat, during which you'll stand by and watch as my soldiers take and destroy as I see fit."
I remain stern, brutal even. But I remind myself that I am speaking to a merciless Jotun after all. He needs to see that I have no time to entertain his delusions. He most certainly possess the orb.
His face loses its amusement, transforming into a serious expression. "I strongly advise you to revisit your vaults, Annalise. I shall patiently await as you do so, savouring this exquisite tea."
He gestures towards the empty teacups on the table, a mocking motion that highlights my failure to fill his cup. "What lovely china you possess. Are they merely for show, or do you have the intention to actually put them to use?" His taunting words continue to sting.
With narrowed eyes, I shoot him a piercing glare, feeling my anger towards him intensify. The audacity and arrogance he exudes only serve to confirm the widespread opinion of him. That the Jotun king is, indeed, an insufferable individual.
"I have no need to check," I reaffirm, "I am confident that we do not possess your orb. Now, will you do as I ask, or..."
"No," he interjects.
"No?" I question, taken aback.
"No," he repeats firmly. "As I mentioned, I will wait. Drinking tea while your guards search."
Our gazes lock, neither of us willing to yield and avert our eyes, creating a subtle yet tense standoff. However, knowing he will become troublesome if I don't comply, I hesitantly make the decision to be the first to break eye contact, signalling a reluctant surrender on my part.
"Though I am confident we do not have your orb, I will entertain your request to appease you—a special consideration, given the fine dress and the beautiful Lirra ornament you gifted me." I reach once again for the teapot. This time, I find the tea has steeped beautifully.
Despite his undeserving manner, I pour him a cup of the very best Vanir tea, a testament to the hospitality he scarcely merits. Yet, to subtly express my displeasure with the company I keep, I refrain from filling my own cup—a quiet way to signal that I do not wish to share tea with him.
Loki clearly recognises my gentle method of showing discontent, as evidenced by the slight narrowing of his eyes when I pour for him and his guard only. Yet, in an act of defiance and disregard for the customary rules that state he should refrain from drinking as a form of apology, he cheerily reaches for the dainty cup, choosing to drink despite my silent protest.
In retrospect, it should not have come as a surprise that Loki does not adhere to normal social standards. He is, by nature, anything but ordinary.
However, the gods seem to favour me when I notice Loki's smug smile falter as he tries to slide his large, blue finger into the curved handle of the teacup. Visibly annoyed when his Jotun-sized fingers prove too thick to fit, his frustration grows—a scene I watch with a mix of fascination and amusement. Eventually, he abandons his futile efforts and opts to envelop the delicate cup within the expanse of his massive hand instead.
Lifting it to his lips, he takes a sip of the warm tea, claiming it as a small victory won.
"Ah, mint, my favourite," he remarks, settling back and casually propping his boots up on a nearby footstool.
I must admit, the slight irritation I caused him brought me immense pleasure. I almost wish I'd witnessed his frustration linger a bit longer.
While he settles in comfortably, I leave my seat to give orders for a substantial number of guards to search the vaults. Ivor initially objects, but I convince him that the more men we send, the less time Loki will spend in Vannaheim. He soon agrees, particularly as he grows displeased with Loki indulging in a tray of delicious desserts, becoming a little too at home with our hospitality.
*
"Perhaps we can continue our talk," Loki suggests, his eyes tracking my agitated pacing as time passes with no news. "It might be a while before your guards report back from the vaults," he adds.
I halt my steps, turning to face him and he motions to the chair opposite him.
"Tea?" he offers, leaning forward and pouring me a cup.
His action, pouring tea from my own teapot despite knowing I've abstained due to his disrespect, is the last straw. The audacity is shocking.
"I am meant to pour my own tea," I assert, unable to contain my emotions any longer. "It is impolite for a guest to force it upon me."
He glances at me, still holding the teapot in his large hand, "How else would I get you to drink with me? ... While you adhere to these silly traditions, I prefer to address our differences through conversation. Speak with me, Annalise. Tell me what you dislike about me that leads you to be disinterested in simply sharing tea together."
A bitter smile forms on my lips as I reply, "The list would be too long; my jaw might seize if I attempted to speak it all."
He stares at me, and I notice a small exhale escape from him, as though not expecting to hear such a harsh reply. A pang of shame hangs over me like a blackened cloud as I realise the rudeness of my words. Calmly, he places the teapot down, "And now who is being disrespectful?" He cooly responds.
I stay quiet as he lifts the saucer and places it on my side of the small table, acting as a barrier between us. "Etiquette dictates that I should offer the cup directly to your hands, but as you can see, in this form, it's not exactly possible unless I wish to cause you harm."
"And do you wish to cause me harm?" I challenge, taking the cup from the table and bringing it to my lips. If he's abandoning traditions, then so will I.
I take a sip of the hot liquid as I await his response, the soothing mint gliding down my throat and providing temporary comfort. However, when I hear only silence, it draws my gaze up to his face, marred by a frowning expression.
"I would never hurt you, Annalise," he finally speaks, his tone laden with a sincerity that almost makes me feel guilty for asking such a question.
Although his actions thus far suggest he doesn't want to physically harm me, there are many ways to hurt someone. My question digs deeper, touching on the immeasurable fears of having my realm taken away from me—wounds far more grievous than any physical touch of a Jotun.
"If the gods do not strike me down immediately should I ever hurt you, I will use my heavy guilt like a anchor. Weighing me down as I walk into the deepest of oceans, and committing myself to death for ever causing you pain."
There he is, that sweet poet who occasionally surfaces with words so haunting.
Why can he not remain this way always? His erratic moods and shifting personality—from moments of kindness to bouts of pomposity—are characteristics often associated with bipolar disorder in gods.
It's as if he struggles with deciding how he wants to behave, leaving those around him in a constant state of uncertainty, never quite sure what to expect next.
The raw vulnerability I see on his face, open and honest in this moment, transports me back to our first encounter, when the peculiar magnetic pull between us was undeniable.
My eyes unconsciously drift to his lips, and I am instantly flooded with the phantom sensations of our previous kiss —the kiss I had braced myself to taste like poison. Yet, there was no trace of bitter venom, only sweetness, which frightened me then and unnerves me even more now. For the memory persists, astonishingly sweet, leaving behind nothing but the aftertaste of honey.
I swallow hard, my throat feeling dry, and I swiftly calm myself as a booming reminder echoes in my mind—Loki is a Jotun, and a master of deception. I cannot afford to be swayed by words, or girlish feelings, however genuine they might seem.
The sudden sound of a throat being cleared breaks the spell of our intense gaze, causing both Loki and I to snap back to reality. Loki directs his attention to his guard, "Still feeling under the weather, Joben?"
His guard nods.
"Then how about I captivate you both with the tale of my most recent triumph over Svartleheim? That will cheer you." There's a detectable hint of pride in his voice as he elaborates, "I successfully reclaimed the colossal chains forged from the ore mined within Jotunheim's oldest glacier. It was a moment of triumphant glory that left the dark elves quivering in fear."
"Weren't those the very chains that kept Fenrir, the fearsome beast, restrained?" I inquire, recalling the hushed discussions amongst my palace guards. "I've heard rumours that Fenrir is still at large," I mention cautiously.
"That is of no concern to me," he replies coolly. "The chains were rightfully mine. I care not for their previous purpose, only that they were returned to me."
I frown, finding his detachment and self-centered perspective unsettling. "But the havoc Fenrir may wreak could be catastrophic," I add.
Loki waves a dismissive hand, his smirk never fading. "Fenrir's freedom is merely a detail in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the successful recovery of my chains. The realms can handle the problem of the escapee as they see fit."
His carefree attitude towards such a grave matter sends a chill down my spine. It apparent Loki's priorities lie solely in his personal gains, regardless of the potential consequences that may befall the realms as a result. I mentally add "slightly psychotic" to the growing list of characteristics that seem to emerge alongside his temperamental nature.
Time seemed to drag on as I found myself forced to endure more of Loki's boastful recounting of his victorious escapades to reclaim ancient relics belonging to him. While I respect his initiative to recover what was his, his preference for force over diplomacy left a bitter taste. The tales glorifying his image were meant to impress me, but they only served to highlight our differences. I value peace, whereas he relishes conquest.
Now, under another intense gaze directed at me, I contemplate escaping to the vaults just to break away from Loki's overwhelming presence. However, as if the gods themselves could sense my suffering, the door abruptly swings open, sparing me from the boredom that threatens to consume me.
I eagerly look to the door, yet, to my dismay, it is not a relieving sight that greets me. Instead, Ivor enters with a grave expression etched upon his face, instantly setting me on edge.
"A word, my queen," Ivor mutters, his usually tall and statuesque figure replaced by a nervous tension.
Excusing myself from Loki's presence, I walk outside the room. Ivor closes the door behind us, and we stand in the corridor. He immediately begins speaking, breathless with urgency.
"We found it," he whispers sharply.
"Found what?" I ask, furrowing my brows.
"The orb!" he exclaims. "We had it all along."
I snort, finding his words too unbelievable to be taken at face value. "Don't be silly, Ivor. Stop playing games." I turn to grasp the handle of the door, but he takes hold of my shoulders and pulls me back to face him.
"This is no game, Annalise. We were wrong... We were so terribly wrong..." His voice, filled with dread, trails off, and his face grows paler by the second, reflecting the gravity of the situation that has suddenly become all too real.
Anxiety coils inside me like a serpent, and I can feel panic welling up inside me, threatening to spill over in tears. But before I can become a sobbing mess, I steel myself. If only for Ivor's sake.
He looks so worried, and I have never seen him so scared. If I were to break down, who would be the pillar of strength? He is usually my rock. We couldn't both crumble.
"If we have the orb, that means I'm bound to spend 24 hours in Jotunheim."
Ivor's face turns more ashen. "You can't. You mustn't," he pleads.
"If I refuse, we forfeit, and Loki and his army can wreak havoc on our realm for a full hour. The losses to Vannaheim with his large army would be catastrophic. I will not allow that, Ivor."
"We can negotiate another term?" he suggests, hope creeping into his voice. "Give him gold, give him all the precious gems in our vault, but you... you cannot leave Vannaheim, Annalise."
The tremor in Ivor's voice sends a ripple of unease through me, and I'm unable to suppress the physical response it triggers, my body beginning to shake involuntarily.
I ponder in silence for a moment, my mind racing to think of an alternative offer instead of my presence in Jotunheim. However, before I could come up with anything, the door beside us suddenly bursts open, revealing Loki standing imposingly in the doorway.
"There will be no renegotiation," he states flatly, his tone icy. It's obvious he had eavesdropped on our conversation. "Adhere to the agreed terms, Annalise, or prepare for my army to devastate your realm." His ultimatum is cold, heartless, and it leaves no room for argument, cementing the grim reality of my predicament.
As Loki looms before me as icy and menacing as the rock he calls home, a surge of fear grips me. I begin to question his true motives. Why did he insist on having me in Jotunheim so desperately? Did he intend to do away with me? If that were his aim, why not end me here and now, on the sacred soil of Vannaheim? At least then, my final breath would be drawn in the realm I hold dear.
"You would bring ruin to Vannaheim, even after reclaiming the orb and the gold. Have you no mercy?" I scold.
He looks at me, his response leaving me momentarily speechless. "I believe it was you who first threatened ruin to Jotunheim, declaring that you would engage in combat if I didn't uphold our deal. Now that you've been proven wrong, you expect me to release you from the binding terms? Would you have done the same for me?"
Realisation struck me. He is right—painfully so. I did indeed threaten to wage battle against his realm, believing I had no orb in my possession. I wouldn't have actually carried out such an action, but the threat itself is damning enough. He has every right to demand that I uphold my side of the deal; his actions are justifiable.
Feeling defeat, I reluctantly concede. "Retrieve the orb of fertility, Ivor, and return it to its rightful owner. As for me... I will pack a small bag for my stay in Jotunheim."
I see Loki's expression of satisfaction as he observes my compliance, relishing in the fact that I agreed without putting up a fight. However, Ivor's desperate plea interrupts his joy.
"But you can't! You cannot leave us, Lissy!"
An ache grips my heart at hearing Ivor use the childhood nickname my mother had for me, a name buried with her to spare my father the pain of hearing it from another's lips. I'd secretly yearned to hear 'Lissy' again. But hearing it now, spoken in Ivor's anguished voice, makes me wish it had remained unspoken.
"Your queen has given an order!" Loki interjects sharply, "At a moment like this, she needs competent guards. Show your worth and obey."
Ivor's anger flares, his cheeks reddening to match the vivid hue of Loki's Jotun crimson eyes. "You are nothing more than a frost rat!" he bellows, his defiance eclipsed by Loki's towering presence. Yet, he refuses to back down. Ivor is stubborn, rooted in his old ways, but he is never a coward, even when faced with an adversary he knows he cannot defeat.
"Ivor!" I cry out, his derogatory outburst stunning me. "We are Vanir, and we pride ourselves on our acceptance and lack of judgment. Restrain your tongue, lest your anger lead you to forget our values. In which case, formal retraining will be provided until they are firmly ingrained."
Both men lock their heated gazes on each other, neither willing to yield, until the sound of Ivor's name repeated in my gentle voice refocuses his attention on me. Reluctantly, he relents, releasing a long exhale.
"I am sorry, my queen," he says solemnly, his defeat evident. "Excuse me while I do as you ask and retrieve the orb."
Watching Ivor stride down the hallway, I see his usual robust presence diminishing under the weight of recent events. It's too much for him, coming too soon after the loss of his king—a pain I understand all too well.
I force my attention back to Loki as Ivor's form vanishes around a corner, and find him offering me a warm smile.
"You needn't worry about packing, Annalise. I have prepared luxurious furs for you," he says, a trace of eagerness lacing his voice. "I promise you will be kept safe and warm under my care."
It is exhausting. This constant shifting between hot and cold, kindness and cruelty. I yearn for Loki to make up his mind and decide whether he wants our realms to be allies or continue as enemies. The confusion is playing havoc with my already fragile emotions.
With the weight of dread settling upon me, my spirit heavy with the unexpected news of leaving Vannaheim, I force myself to maintain decorum. As I'd expected him to apologise had the outcome been different, I push aside my pride and offer my apologies, acknowledging my realm's error.
"Please forgive Vannaheim for the delay in returning your belongings, King Loki. We are grateful for the opportunity to have used them during our trying times. I sincerely hope that their return will bring prosperity to you and your people." With a deep bow, I lower myself in a gesture of respect, conveying my humiliation.
Suddenly, I feel a cool hand beneath my chin, gently coaxing my head upward to meet Loki's gaze. He has magically transformed into his safer form, just for the possibility of touching me.
"Never bow to me, Annalise. I am not above you nor below you, but beside you as your equal."
His words surprise me.
In this moment, I realise that any other king would revel in his victory, demanding that I physically grovel at his feet. But here stands the King of Jotunheim, having proven his triumph in our agreement, yet not making me feel small or humiliated in any way. Instead, he displays compassion. I couldn't help but question myself— if the roles were reversed, would I have shown the same grace?
I must confess, I would likely not. Eager to gloat, I had imagined myself donning his helmet and flaunting his defeat. This realisation stings—am I really such a petty soul?