Chapter Text
Milky white stars twinkle brightly in the dark sky, blue and purple blending together as if an artist had purposely spilled different buckets of paint on a blank canvas to see what would become of their madness.
A low fire burns in the bedchamber’s fireplace, the sweet-scented logs splitting open, embers dancing and twisting away from the burning wood. The bedchamber is opulent, richly decorated with hues of gold and scarlet, just the barest hints of cream peek out amongst the richer colors. The bedchamber is divided into two, a small set of marble steps leads into a well maintained sleeping quarter with a sumptuous bed that could easily hold four or five people in it comfortably. In the main section of the chambers, holds an octagonal bath upon a dais, a gilded bench is tucked against the wall closest to the fireplace. Next to it a small table that holds a pitcher of mead. Throw pillows, rugs, and vases of ferns are artfully placed around the room in a way that seems inviting but never lets a guest forget the prosperity of one’s host.
Cream-colored curtains quiver gently from the light breeze that drifts in from the balcony. The curtains flutter ever so slightly revealing a lone figure standing upon the balcony. A gold robe is wrapped around the body, the sash at their waist loose in such a manner that the robe almost slips from their narrow frame and is barely held up by slim shoulders. Inky black hair that comes down to their nape is ruffled lightly from the breeze.
“Marriage,” Loki scoffs as he leans against the balcony, a goblet of mead rests gently in his right hand. His teeth clack together in anger as that singular word tumbles past his lips. His brows are wrinkled as he gazes out on the warm lights of the Asgardian capital. “That old fool,” he hisses, thoughts turning to the family dinner from earlier that has set the tone for his foul mood tonight.
Loki had sat at the dining table, his mother, Frigga, sitting across from him with his father, Odin, taking his place at the head of the table. The solid wooden table is adorned with three sets of plates, cups, and cutlery made from pure gold. A cornucopia of food decorates the table, filling the dining hall with a heady scent of food basted in an alarming amount of butter. In Loki’s opinion, the table holds more food than necessary for three people, and he notes with some bitterness that much of the food happens to be his favorite. His emerald green eyes flicker up to stare at Odin who cuts into the browned flesh of a whole roasted chicken, carving a slice off for himself as if he has no other care in the world. Loki knows the old man is trying to butter him up, knows that he’s trying to placate him with food and drink before dumping bad news into his lap. It’s what his father had always done to him and his other children, a layer of sweet just before it was all broken to pieces with bad news.
Feeling his stomach grow colder and heavier with every bite of food that slips past his lips, Loki’s shoulders are tense as he waits for the news to drop, thinking that it could possibly be news from the front lines about Hela or Thor. He can hardly taste the meal from how bitter his mouth is.
“We received a messenger today,” Odin finally opens his mouth, lets his words flow slowly out as if to test what weight they’ll have on his family.
Frigga’s warm eyes glitter with hope, thinking that this will be news of her two eldest children who have been stationed on the front lines of a war that’s been going on for five years now. Loki, however, is distrustful of whatever news Odin has to share with them. He knows his father too well, knows his stubbornness, and his penchant for being vainglorious when it comes to the wars he wages and the conquests he often leads with his elder sister, Hela. He knows there would be no need for this abundant spread of food and drink unless there was something more attached to Odin’s words.
“From Sakaar,” the words are pushed out through Odin’s teeth, he glances at neither of them as he lifts up his goblet of mead and sips from it.
“From Sakaar?” Loki notes the bitter edges that surround his mother’s words as she speaks, her eyes are narrowed ever so slightly as she stares at Odin, her gaze so pointed that he sees beneath it the dangerous pit viper of a woman that he’d only heard so many tales about. This dangerous woman that had brought Odin to his knees in a duel; the first and only time Odin had ever bent the knee to anyone poets had claimed. It makes him wonder for the millionth time in his life what Frigga was like before her marriage, in the wild of her youth when it seemed like the world was her playground. For everything that he thinks about Odin and how Frigga is his right hand, she’s dangerous and deadly in her own right when the occasion arises.
“Yes,” Odin finally lifts his single eye to stare at his wife, “it was terms of a peace treaty.”
That makes Loki’s brows rise swiftly upon his face. Odin had waged this war for five years now to the point that Loki, or much of Asgard really, is uncertain whether they or Sakaar started it. Odin’s legacy had been built upon war, just like his father and his father’s father before him. There’s no way Odin would even consider the idea of peace instead of brutally crushing his enemies and bringing them to submission, there was no way Odin would agree to the terms of a peace treaty—
“—I’ve already agreed to them,” Odin’s words strike an odd chord within Loki’s chest. Frigga’s gaze goes hard as steel as if she doesn’t understand her husband’s words, much less understand the inner workings of his mind. The torchlight within the dining hall casts shadows upon their faces, the warm, enchanted light a juxtaposition to the cold tone of his mother’s words that follow after.
“My love,” Frigga’s upper lip curls slightly, her tone cold and brittle as she speaks. Despite the warmth of the dining hall, Loki swears that it’s grown colder, the flames in their sconces seem dimmer. “What were these terms?”
For a moment, Odin says nothing as if he knew his wife’s reaction would be less than pleased when Sakaar’s messenger approached him with the terms of the peace treaty. When he does finally speak, he notices Odin pointedly avoiding his gaze.
“A hand in marriage.”
“Who’s?” Despite the sharp whisper of the word, it bounces off of the walls like a dagger made of ice.
“The youngest prince of Asgard.”
All warmth seems to suck itself out of the room. There’s no sound, no nothing. Except, for the disappointment and enraged embers that spark in Frigga’s eyes. Loki can tell his mother is infuriated, she’s meant to be Odin’s ear, his voice of reason, and yet he’s gone and done something foolhardy without consulting her. Giving in to terms that would force her to give her youngest child away.
The thick tension that drapes itself over the room only gives way when delirious laughter frees itself from Loki’s chest. Frigga and Odin turn their gazes upon him as if hearing this news has driven him to become unhinged. It’s rich, Loki realizes, agreeing to the terms of a mad man while his two eldest children are away. He’s grateful that Hela isn’t there because she’d laugh at his expense; laugh like Loki had come into the throne room dressed in motley, mead would slosh from the lip of her goblet, splatter on the back of her hand. Thor would be enraged. Hotheaded enough to destroy something on his way out of the room. To give their brother over to a man that had treated their war like a mere child’s game of chess? Loki laughs to himself, Odin has gone mad.
“I’ve already agreed,” Odin informs them, only causing Loki to laugh even harder.
His laughter seems to make Frigga’s anger even more scalding, tears spring to Loki’s eyes as he covers his mouth with his hand. There’s the bad news he was waiting for, the bad news Odin had to butter him up to hear.
“Have you gone mad!” A roar tears itself out of Frigga’s chest, her chair scraping against the floor as she rises out of her seat. Peering down at her husband as if her eyes could shoot daggers out of them, Odin’s lips press into a thin line as he addresses his wife.
“What’s done is done,” he tells her, leaving her no room to argue against the matter.
And there is none, Loki finds himself thinking bitterly, his laughter dying down. Whenever Odin has made up his mind on a matter, his word is final. No argument, no fuss, what Odin decrees must be done.
Frigga’s eyes slip shut, her lips pressed so tightly together that they bleed themselves of color. “When is the wedding?”
“In two week’s time.”
A sigh stumbles from Frigga’s lips. In Loki’s honest opinion she looks like she’s considering taking up the golden knife near her pinky and stabbing Odin’s other eye out with it, from the look of anger simmering in her eyes, Loki’s convinced, she’s already thought of the idea.
Hours after dinner and Loki finds himself on the balcony, peering down at the capital city of Asgard with all of its bright lights twinkling with merriment meanwhile he’s up above, brooding, all joy ripped out of him the moment Odin opened his mouth at dinner. His life’s been signed away by Odin to a man he’s never met, never seen much less seen, and whom he knows nothing about. Immediately after dinner, he had headed straight to the royal library to find any and all information he could about the mysterious ruler of Sakaar, the Grandmaster.
There’d been nothing.
No information about the man’s age, his appearance, not even the few history books they had on Sakaar indicated whether the man was a native of the land he ruled or if he came from elsewhere. It seems that the moment Sakaar came into existence so too did this mysterious Grandmaster. What little information did exist, was strictly confined to how the Grandmaster had united the warring tribes and races of Sakaar together, turned the kingdom into one where fun, entertainment, and hedonism reigned supreme.
Sighing to himself, Loki turns just as he hears a knock on his chamber doors and finds the gold doors being pushed open. Slipping into the room, Frigga smiles upon seeing him, the skirt of her dress drags against the floor in a muted whisper, gliding to the middle of the room, she takes a seat on the edge of the octagonal bath.
“Taken a bath yet?” She smiles at him, though the movement is full of warmth, he can see her anger toward Odin still simmering beneath the surface.
“No,” he responds, lifting his goblet to his lips, he tips his head back and drains it of the rest of his mead.
“Come,” Frigga waves her hand at him, motioning for him to move toward her.
Stepping back into his chambers, Loki sets the goblet down on the lower step of the dais that leads up toward the bath. Shedding himself of his robe, his long limbs the color of milk sinks into the water heated up by his mother’s magic. A sigh leaves his lips as he doesn’t so much as hear, but senses her conjuring up supplies with her seiðr. He hears her lathering up her hands with soap and begins to work the suds into his hair, her fingers massaging into his scalp. Sighing contentedly, Loki relaxes under her ministrations as she tends to his hair like she used to do when he was a child.
Their quiet reprieve is broken up moments later, by a single question. “How are you?”
He snorts loudly, “Like a man who’s just been told that his life ends in two week’s time.”
Frigga sighs, it’s a low sound that comes from deep within her chest. Picking up a pitcher of hot water, she slowly pours it over his lathered hair, soap slides from his locks, and down his skin. Placing the pitcher down, she picks up a crystal vile of oil and pours some out in her hand. The scent of olive oil and rose water tickles at his nose.
“Your father,” she pauses as if searching for the right word. Her fingers work the oil into his hair, glides it through each of his strands, “means well,” she ultimately settles for.
“Means well?” Loki cocks a brow that his mother can’t see. “If he meant well he wouldn’t agree to marry me off to a man history knows nothing about.”
Frigga’s lips clamp shut, then purse together as if she knows the root of her child’s argument and agrees with it to an extent. “Your father,” she starts again, eyes still burning with anger, “has his reasons.”
Twisting in the bathwater, Loki stares at his mother. “His reasons?” Loki’s serpentine-like hiss trails off into a bitter laugh. “Odin was never one to agree to terms of peace before so what has changed?”
Frigga’s eyes turn tender, a sigh leaving her lips like she’s known Loki wouldn’t understand.
“Your father has realized that peace is a better legacy to leave behind for the Nine Realms rather than war and the spoils it has to offer.”
Loki’s eyes widen, two pools of emerald that stare deeply into the calm waters of the sea. Shock weaves itself through his veins at Odin’s sudden changes of policy. “And what’s brought this on?” He asks, “when Odin has been entangled in war’s bed for longer than I’ve been alive, he exchanged his right eye for knowledge at Mimir’s well all for the sake of gaining an upper hand against his enemies. He drank from war’s cup in the same fashion as his father and his father’s father and all the Asgardian kings that have come before him. So what’s changed? What’s made the old fool finally go mad?”
A sigh comes from Frigga again, it seems to be all she can do this evening. “You’re too young to truly understand.” Loki’s nose wrinkles in offense at that, he may be 1,070 years old but he’s definitely not a child. “Odin has lived a long life, long enough to recognize that some things are just more important than others.” Reaching out, she cups one of Loki’s cheeks, her warm palm brushing against his skin, the pad of her thumb stroking against the soft skin of his cheek. “Be joyous,” she tells him, “Thor and Hela are returning from the front lines tomorrow.”
He groans, that’s just more bad news on top of an already horrible evening. He’s unappeased by the fact that he’ll have to deal with his obnoxious brother and his sister who will take pleasure in his misfortune.
Patting his cheek as if she can understand his pain, Frigga returns to oiling his hair and presses a kiss upon his cheek before leaving him alone to his bath.
The next morning fairs no better as Loki is greeted by the sound of his sibling’s entrance. Or more importantly, greeted by the sound of a heavy metal door being thrown open by Thor’s ridiculous strength. The door to the dining hall is twisted open, a fist-sized hole warping the gold metal in the middle of it as if Thor had punched it open, with a roll of his eyes, Loki is certain that that’s what Thor actually did. Servants who had been walking behind Thor stare warily at the dented door, the metal just hanging off of the hinges and the delicate vinework and other details upon the door damaged beyond recognition.
Storming into the dining hall, with lightning crackling off of his fingertips, Thor roars, “YOU OLD FOOL!” His words are like a thunderclap in the hall causing servants to wince from the sound alone.
“Thor!” Frigga gasps, outraged by her son’s outburst, “watch your tongue!”
Odin’s face is unblemished by a lack of emotions, he holds a single hand up and informs Frigga that it’s alright.
“Have you no shame!” Thor continues to roar, feet pounding against the floor as he marches toward the table.
Hela strolls into the dining hall after Thor, an impish grin causing her lips to curl as if the news of her youngest brother being offered up as a sacrificial lamb in order to bring about an end to the war is the funniest thing she’s heard all day. Fenris, her dog, playfully yips at her heels as he trails after, much more grown from his puppyish state since Loki saw him last. He now comes up to Hela’s knees.
“I have plenty of things to be ashamed of,” Odin cooly responds, “one of them being a son who thinks it’s fitting to storm into a room like a child throwing a tantrum.”
Thor turns read in the face as Hela laughs, takes a seat at the dining table across from Loki, and puts her feet up onto the wood. The sharp glare from Frigga aimed at her, tells Loki that Hela will be chastised by their mother later for her unladylike conduct.
“I’m doing what’s best for Asgard,” Odin continues, pointedly swinging his gaze between Thor and Hela, “something that you and Hela could benefit from learning.”
“And the benefit of peace,” Thor hisses, slamming his hands down onto the table, “is sacrificing your youngest son?”
“No,” Odin quarrels with him, his single eye narrowing dangerously, “this benefit of peace is ensuring that for generations of Asgardian’s to come, as well as the future of the entire races of the Nine Realms, may enjoy a world where there is no more war nor strife. No more dead sons or daughters to send off to Valhalla. Just peace.” He closes his remaining eye, a hum vibrating in his chest like this had been a decision he’d been sitting on for quite some time. “And if it means marrying my youngest child off to the ruler of Sakaar to do so. I’d have done it years ago if the option was presented before me.”
Unassuaged by Odin’s words, Thor glares at Odin as Frigga sets her little spoon down, no longer interested in the small bowl of jelly and finely cut fruits flavored with rosewater that had been placed before her. She looks as if she’s close to launching herself out of her seat to stop her eldest son less he does something reckless.
Hela glances between the members of her family summons a knife into her hand with her seiðr and stabs it through a roll of bread on the table, she lifts the whole thing up to her mouth, tearing off a morsel of the loaf with her teeth. “Have any of you bothered to ask Loki how he feels about this?” She questions through a full mouth.
The question surprises Loki and nearly everyone else. Even Fenris looks surprised by the rare display of his mistress’s concern. Everyone stares at him.
He snorts and replies dryly, “Oh. I’m perfectly happy being wedded off it means father gets his precious peace.” Standing up, he leaves the dining hall, uncomfortable to be sitting there any longer where his family can talk about his fate as if he’s some cow being argued over. Trudging along through the palace halls, his feet carry him to the training yard, a row of dartboards has been set up in a small corner. Using his seiðr, Loki summons his knives to him and throws them at a dartboard until he starts to feel better.
“It’s rare of you to be in the training yard, your highness.”
Loki turns at the familiar voice, honey-sweet with rough edges that belay years of experience on the battlefield. He’s unsurprised to find that it belongs to Brunnhilde, her dark hair is parted into three braided sections and pulled back into a ponytail. Toned arms are exposed by the cream-colored dress she wears, a simple sash tied around her waist and a sword strapped to her hip. A small smile graces her face, fingers drumming against her rich skin as she arches a brow at the Asgardian royal.
He’s surprised to see her here and he says as much to her. “Shouldn’t you be off training the new Valkyrior or getting drunk on mead somewhere?”
Her rich laughter fills the courtyard, her mouth upturned as she uncrosses her arms to place her hands on her hip. “I and some of the other Valkyrie’s just returned from the front lines, I came to give Odin my report.”
“Right,” Loki huffs, turning back to the dartboard, he picks up a knife and throws it hard out of frustration at the mention of Odin’s name. It hits the target right in the center.
“Well,” she starts, “congratulations on the betrothal.”
His next throw misses the target completely, the knife bounces off of a corner and embeds itself into the ground. With a bitter laugh, he turns to stare at her. “Has all of Asgard heard of my misfortune? Or shall I get to live as an unburdened man tonight?”
Brunnhilde continues to smile at him. There’s a look of pity upon her face that sours his already terrible mood. He knows he has no right to be annoyed at her expression, but he’s already spent hours feeling nettled about the situation himself. He just doesn’t want others to pity him right now; look at him like he’s a man who’s been condemned to the gallows.
“If all of Asgard hasn’t heard about the terms of the peace treaty by now,” she informs him, “they surely will by nightfall.”
“Oh great,” Loki bemoans, “I’ll have the whole kingdom pitying me by the end of the week.”
“It could be better,” she strides over to Loki, twitches her fingers, and summons the knife that missed the dartboard into her hand, “you could have the whole kingdom hating you instead.” She tosses the knife at the board, not even looking at it. The knife embeds itself right next to the one that’s already hit the bullseye mark.
Glancing at her, Loki’s brow arches upon his face. “I already have that underway with all the tricks and mischief I’ve caused over the years.”
She continues to smile, moves her hand to the hilt of her sword, and pats it. “What do you say? Should we spar one last time before you’re shipped off?”
“You mean sent to my doom?”
Rolling her eyes, she pulls her sword out of her hilt and points the tip at him, her head cocked to the side as she silently asks what do you say, your highness? He spars with her and loses quickly, he’s never been one to rely on strength alone, not like Hela or Thor. He’s used to relying on underhanded methods and tricks, intelligence over pure brawn to try and undermind his opponents, but he and Brunnhilde have spared so many times since he’s been a child that she knows him and his methods too well. They spar again and again, with each time Loki ending up on his back, covered in dirt. With one final spar, Loki lies on the courtyard ground covered in a mixture of dirt and sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath. Brunnhilde hasn’t even worked up a sweat as she puts her sword back into its sheath and sticks a hand out to pull Loki upright. He’s being pulled to his feet just as Brunnhilde’s wife walks into the courtyard.
Hildegarde is built like a giant and tall like one too. She’s about as tall as Thor, biceps larger than a child’s skull with hair the color of spun wheat tied into an intricate braid that flows down her back. She wears a leather tunic over a homespun dress, a heavy axe is strapped to her back, the sunlight catching off of the metal weapon that Loki has never seen her part with. Sapphire eyes crinkle ever so slightly upon seeing her wife. Brunnhilde laughs with glee as Hildegarde picks her up as if she weighs nothing and spins her in a small circle, kisses her on the cheek, yet wrinkles her nose at the dirt covering her and Loki’s clothing.
“You just came back from war. You couldn’t take a break from your sword?” Setting her wife down.
Smiling, Brunnhilde smacks her wife on the arm, a flirtatious smirk stretching her lips from ear to ear. “There are other swords you and I can play with together.” Loki rolls his eyes at the two as Hildegarde laughs from the depths of her soul.
Glancing at himself, Loki frowns at the silk tunic and leather pants that are layered with a thick crust of dirt. He’s filthy and in need of a bath but flicks his gaze up when Hildegarde congratulates him on his engagement. Brunnhilde smacks her on the arm again. “Loki isn’t exactly enthusiastic about his nuptials.”
Hildegarde shrugs her shoulders. “There could be worse things.”
“Like what?” Loki snorts at her.
With a completely deadpanned face, she says, “You could be giving birth to a horse.”
Lips pressing together, Loki stares at her before erupting with laughter. Tears spill from his eyes that he quickly brushes away before bidding the two goodbye so that he can head back to his chambers for a much-needed bath. The servants are throwing dried flower petals into the bathwater as he strips himself and sinks into the water, he’s just scrubbed himself free of dirt when Hela strolls in without any warning, swipes a strip of dried meat from a tray the servants had brought in and tosses it to Fenris who snatches the meat out of the air and tears into it.
“Come to gloat? Dear sister of mine.”
“No,” the faint curve of a smile is on her lips as she tosses a casual glance at him and goes to pour herself out a cup of mead. “I can do that anytime, I’ve just come to see how you’re...handling your sudden betrothal.”
“Oh,” Loki lifts a hand out of the bath, water droplets dance across the surface of his skin, “obviously well. I’ve never been more excited in my life to be married to this every mysterious Grandmaster!”
Hela says nothing as she drains half of her goblet and takes a seat on one of the various settee in the room. Her eyes soften as she sprawls across the furniture, a look that she rarely ever has, but a tender expression that’s only ever reserved for her family on the rarest of occasions. “I know this is difficult. After all, Odin’s always been—
“—Bloodthirsty? War hungry? An old, cantankerous fool?”
“Well, all of those things.” Hela laughs into her goblet of mead. “Odin’s changing. For the better? For the worse? No one knows. But he’s changing and doing something that he believes is right.”
“And that means marrying me off?”
Hela sips on her mead once more, before remarking to Loki, “You aren’t being shipped off like some cattle that’s being lead to slaughter. You’re as much an Odinson as Thor. I know that Odin and us often butt heads, but he loves us in his own unusual way.” She frowns, eyes flicking up to stare at the ceiling, “but he’s all cuddly now, like an old, senile bear beneath that exterior he puts up.” Hela smiles at her brother, sinks further into the settee, “besides, our father would easily slit your future husband’s throat if he so much as dares to hurt you, just as easily as he would rescind his vows of peace to wage war if you were ever harmed.”
Loki laughs a low sound that rumbles out of his throat. “He won’t need to slit my future husband’s throat if he harms me.”
“Oh?” Hela glances up from admiring her nails. “Why is that?”
A dangerous fire smolders in Loki’s eyes as he addresses his sister, “Because I’ll do it first.”
By the end of the week, all of Asgard is ringing with the news of Loki’s betrothal. The Warriors Three and Lady Sif have made it a sport to tease Loki over pints of mead when they’d gathered to drag the three Asgardian royal siblings off to a local pub in the Medina, a section of the capital city that housed much of Asgard’s pubs and taverns. Lady Sif, drunkenly, had cornered him and tried to explain all of the delicacies of lovemaking between men—a conversation that had made Loki wonder how the hell Sif had even come to be imbued with such information. Annoyed by her treatment of him as if he’s some blushing virgin, which Loki is not, not with his long history and fair share of bedmates, that he knows immediately from the raucous laughter coming from the table the Warriors Three had seized that one of them, Thor or Hela has put Sif up to this.
The next morning, Odin just has to make a delightful announcement over breakfast as he’s so inclined to do. Delivering bad news with the good over a hearty breakfast so you could never determine if the bitterness in your mouth was from the food or from Odin dumping news into your lap.
“We’ll be receiving a visit from the ruler of Sakaar later in the day,” he tells them all, though the news is much more for Loki’s ears than his siblings, “to hammer out the terms of the peace agreement between the two kingdoms.”
This intrigues Loki, his first chance to meet this mysterious Grandmaster and determine what type of person he is.
Before midday, the Grandmaster comes to the Asgardian Palace. He’s tall, a good foot more than Loki’s frame of 6’4”. His brown eyes are warm, yet flicker with a playful fire and are rimmed with black kohl. A single blue stripe of electric blue is painted from his lower lip to his jaw, his nails are painted the same color of electric blue. He sports a gold robe over a robin blue tunic, red embroiders the robe, and matches the sash that’s tied around his waist. A silver pair of pants complete the ensemble. His manner of dressing while strange seems to fit his peculiar idiosyncrasy. He’s charming and aloof in a way that makes it difficult to discern his age and difficult to know much about him. It’s as if he enjoys making people chase after him more.
“Grandmaster,” Odin dips his head toward the man in greeting, his scepter knocking against the tiles of the throne room as he approaches the man. “My wife, Frigga,” he jerks his scepter in the direction of the goddess. “My son, Thor.” Thor’s arms are crossed tightly in front of himself, mouth set into a firm expression as he sizes the Grandmaster up. “My daughter, Hela.” The grin splitting Hela’s face in half is utterly terrifying but the Grandmaster doesn’t seem fazed by it. “And Loki, my child who is both and oft neither.”
The Grandmaster stares at him, the light in his eyes flickering ever so slightly as he reaches out, grasps Loki’s hand in his own, and presses a gentle kiss to the skin. “The pleasure of meeting you is all mine.”
Hela makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat that earns her a swift kick to the ankle from their mother. Odin and the Grandmaster, who is accompanied by the head of his guard, Topaz, head off to discuss the terms of the peace agreement. A few hours after noon, Loki slips out of his chambers, walking through the halls of the palace, he passes by the garden, spying Frigga taking a leisurely stroll amongst the blooming flowers and ferns. He tears his gaze away from her, keeping his head pointed and swiftly walking past only to be stopped in his tracks by his mother’s voice.
“Loki Odinson. Don’t.”
Spinning on his heels, he plasters a smile onto his face and walks into the garden as Frigga dismisses her handmaidens with a wave of her hand. The handmaidens bow and quickly scramble away, leaving the two of them alone.
“Why mother,” Loki presses a hand against his chest, putting on angelic airs despite being no angel. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
Frigga scoffs at him. “Loki, while I may not have born you from my own body, I’ve let you suckle from my breast and taught you the arts of the coven who raised me and taught me their ways. You may as well be the other half of my heart. I know you well, Loki Odinson, and I know what you’re planning on doing.”
Batting his eyelashes at her, Loki laces his fingers together as if he can do no wrong. “Mother, I was simply planning to head to the library and read a little before retiring to bed.”
“Loki—” Frigga’s mouth worms itself into a flat line as she watches her youngest child raise his hand, snap his fingers and dissolve his illusion in an array of golden, shimmering light.
Across the palace, Loki is in the hall, watching a servant carrying a tray of wine toward a gold door that houses the war room. He follows after her, cloaked invisible through the use of his seiðr. Slipping in after the servant pushes the door open before her, Loki spies the Grandmaster and Odin seated at a circular wooden table. On its surface, a map of the Nine Realms has been burned onto its surface. Lifting the pitcher of wine off of the tray, the servant refills their empty goblets and leaves.
“So you’re agreeing to the terms?” Odin asks the ruler of Sakaar.
The Grandmaster cocks his head to the side, taps his long, thin fingers against his jaw. “Well...yes and no.” He points at Odin, the faint ghost of a smile splayed upon his lips. “I’m agreeing to them, but I’m not a huge fan of forcing people to do things without their, ah, what do you call it?” He rolls his wrist, brows pinched together as he searches for the word. “Consent.” He smiles at Odin, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “Maybe we should ask the youngest prince of Asgard about it first.”
Loki doesn’t know how he does it, all he knows is that he feels the edges of his magic, of his seiðr being tugged at. Like when one finds the edge of a frayed thread and tugs at it, he can feel foreign fingers tugging at him, and then he’s standing in the war room visible; standing there shocked as if Odin and the Grandmaster had just walked in on him naked.
“How—?”
The Grandmaster wiggles his long fingers. “A magician never reveals his secret. But I’m so glad you’re here.” Pressing his fingers together to form a steeple, the Grandmaster glances at Odin. “Odin and I were just having a discussion about you. Tell me Loki, are you fond of playing games?”
“Playing games?” Loki’s brows shoot up, uncertain of just what exactly is going on.
“Yes,” the Grandmaster’s lips curl back to show his sparkling white teeth, “I’m quite...skilled at games. Love all sorts of them. So I was wondering if you’d be interested in playing.”
Loki doesn’t understand him; doesn’t understand how he thinks, much less what his goals are.
“What are your terms?” He finally asks, not one to say no to a challenge.
The Grandmaster seems delighted at that as he resumes tapping his chin. Pointing at Loki, he says, “One game; one round. If you win, well, you get whatever you want so long as it’s within my power to grant it. If I win, then I get what I want.”
Interesting.
“And if my desire is to make this impending marriage null?”
“I’m a man of my honor.” The Grandmaster splays a hand against his chest, “I always fulfill my opponent’s requests...so long as they win.”
Loki agrees to the Grandmaster’s terms, watches the man lift his hand and wave it over the table, the long sleeves of his robe fluttering with the movement. A chessboard appears on the table, the pieces seem familiar to Loki. Once he approaches the table he realizes its Asgardian chess and smirks. He has no clue what the Grandmaster is thinking as he sits down on the opposite side of him and begins to play against him.
He has the upper hand, after all, Asgardian chess had been taught to him since the moment he could speak a single word as a babe. He thinks he’s close to winning, of course, moving his king before the Grandmaster’s serpent, but that smile that he had worn on his face is quickly wiped off when the man wipes the floor with him using only the few pieces he has remaining. A cold shiver claws its way up his back, bony fingers caressing the knobs of his spine. The sudden feeling makes him grow leery that he hadn’t been winning from the start, that instead he had been secretly coaxed into playing into the Grandmaster’s hand. As if each push and pull of the pieces he’d moved had simply been doing what the Grandmaster had expected of him and resulted in him losing.
Gazing at the Grandmaster’s face, the man’s features are smooth, unabashed in a way as if his win had been a stroke of good luck. Eyes the color of freshly made syrup glance up at Loki, observing him and his reaction. This man unnerves him, Loki decides, in so many different ways. Offering his hand out to Loki, the Asgardian prince lifts his hand and slips it into the Grandmaster’s own. Bringing Loki’s hand up to his lips, the Grandmaster places a chaste kiss against his cool skin.
“It seems I won,” the Grandmaster’s deep voice rumbles.
Irritation bleeds into Loki’s words, “It seems so. Name your terms and I’ll fulfill them.”
“Ah,” the Grandmaster smiles as if Loki hasn’t quite understood a joke someone delivered, “well, my terms are already getting fulfilled.”
Loki’s eyes narrow, nose wrinkling from ambiguity. “What?” The word is crisp and short, like a whip cracking in the air.
“You see,” the Grandmaster continues, tossing a glance in Odin’s direction before his gaze swings back to Loki. “Odin and I had a rather interesting discussion. Seemed your old man here knew you were going to show up. Had an inkling from his missing eye here. Which, quite interesting really—a very interesting story he told me about it. But that’s beside the point. My terms were that if I won the game, Odin here would be willing to marry you off to me.”
The smile on Loki’s face turns deadly, a smile that seems to make his eyes glint with a murderous rage that makes him want to transform into some inhuman beast that spits venom that melts flesh from bone.
“What about the peace treaty?” Loki calmly asks, mouth still split apart. “Wasn’t my hand in marriage a negotiable term for bringing about the end of this war?”
The Grandmaster seems truly stunned at that, boisterous laughter spills from his lips as easily as the wine that threatens to spill from the shaking goblet in his hand. “Oh, that’s a funny joke!” He looks at Odin, points a finger at the youngest prince of Asgard. “You should have told me he was a jokester besides being so attractive.”
Loki can’t help the flush that spills across his cheeks; droplets of wine spilled into fresh cream. The Grandmaster stares at him, eyes half-lidded with intrigue and desire burning in them after acknowledging Loki as attractive.
“No,” the Grandmaster addresses him, “war is, ah, how can I say this? Entertaining when it isn’t old. But this one’s been dragging on for quite some time and I’m not very much interested in it anymore. I was going to call for peace anyway. Having your hand in marriage was never a part of it, not at least until now when we played this game.
Loki’s smile grows wider and deadlier as he glances at Odin who raises his own goblet to his lips, his single eye staring off into the distance as if he had no care in the world.
He decides he’s going to kill Odin. Even if it’s the last thing he does before the guards come to throw him into the dungeons. He’s going to skewer Odin on his knives until blood drips down his hands.
Yes, Loki decides.
He’s going to kill Odin with his own two hands.