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Chapter Text

Mother took to wrapping her daughter's thin wrists in a worn cotton scarf to hide the heavy metal chains from sight. While Father stood in front of them both, ready to bargain—not to save his daughter's life, but to save face in front of the Allfather.

Dagny sharply accused her daughter of not washing the blood from underneath her fingernails, though they knew Idona had not been given a basin to wash in since the incident.

"Disgraceful!" She hissed before wetting her thumb with her spit and wiping at the cut on Idona's lip. Idona flinched, but she couldn't physically pull away. There was no way out of this. Not now. Not after what she had done.

Dagny grabbed Idona's jaw and forced her to turn her head so she could clean the smudge on her daughter's cheek. A smudge that turned out to be a bruise.

"Absolutely disgraceful."

Idona bit back tears. It wasn't from shame—she wasn't ashamed of what she did—but from the harshness in which her Mother yanked her back and forth to polish her; like a silver spoon being presented as some offering.

It wasn't far from the truth.

"Stop meddling," Ivar's voice cut like an ax. It echoed in the otherwise empty throne room. Dagny paid him no mind. But she finished with her fussing by tucking hair behind Idona's ear. It wasn't kind. Not in the way a mother would fix her daughter's hair. The way a mother should.

Finally, they were led further into the throne room. That's when Idona's eyes found the Allfather—Odin—seated on his throne. Not in a way that was fatherly, not in the way Idona always imagined he would look, but in a way that made him appear like a judge. She realized in that very moment that this was a sentencing. Whether she would be given mercy or not, that was the ultimate question.

The guards that brought them forward left their side the nearer they came to the throne. Odin watched them steadily with his one eye. His silver hair reminded Idona of the blade of a sword, and the ice of a Jotunheim storm. His stare just as harsh.

Idona let her eyes float downward immediately, this time to flicker over to the gorgeous woman in a silk, deep violet gown with silver and gold trim. She wore her blonde hair like a crown, and the faintest hint of sympathy on her face. Idona found herself breathing a little easier at the sight of it.

Before Dagny or Ivar could open their mouths, Odin spoke.

"Why cover her chains? Do you feel chastened for the actions your own daughter has committed?"

His voice was almost soothing. Perhaps it was the fact that he spoke to her parents and not to her directly that made Idona's shoulders relax. Her neck felt tight. But she wouldn't dare stretch in view of the Allfather. For a moment she let her eyes jump back up to the woman in violet—Frigga—and it both surprised and chilled her to realize the Queen of Asgard was looking right at her.

"Idona alone bears the weight of her disgrace," Ivar said. "Your Highness—our shame lies only in sharing her blood."

Idona felt the bite in Father's tone, but she was numb to it. She had heard it all before. Somehow that day it felt worse. To know she had only been saved from execution in order for her parents to gain favor with the gods.

Frigga began to glide closer, her hands clasped calmly in front of her. "She does not appear as dangerous as the stories tell," Frigga mused aloud. She spoke with a certain softness that paralleled the gentle rustle of her gown. A sound so out of place among those who both hated and disapproved of Idona.

Ivar, who had stepped aside in a gesture of begrudging respect, gave a small bow of his head to acknowledge the Queen; stepping further from Idona to give Frigga a clearer view of the young woman before her.

At Idona's side, Dagny stood stiff, eyes narrowed, calculating whether or not Frigga said what she had as a question or a mere statement.

"She was poisoned—blinded by her own rage," Dagny commented.

Ivar stepped in. "She was not raised to be insolent. She's tainted this bloodline's honor."

Frigga's eyes flickered from Ivar's to Dagny's, not moving an inch, as if she couldn't be bothered to turn for either of them.

"I'll be damned if I let it go any further than what it's become," Dagny finished, her tone low and careful.

Idona swallowed, her lips were dry and cracked but she was used to it. Used to the inability to use her own words to fight for her case. Against her own flesh and blood. With a slow intake of breath, Idona chose not to be silent anymore. She had gone to the extremes to take her life back, she couldn't just stop there. But when her lips parted to speak—someone else did instead.

"I expected to find a dragon!"

All eyes turned to the figure emerging from the shadow of a column. Dressed in a deep green and black detailed tunic, his hair smoothed back and cropped short just below his ears—a smirk curled at his lips and would drive any number of people insane.

"With fire and brimstone in her eyes," he finished. He wandered closer, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp green eyes observed the woman in chains before Odin and Frigga. Her raven dark hair tightly twisted in a braid settled along her spine—unkempt, like she had spent many a night desperate for sleep. Her skin looked like white porcelain—a doll on display. He eyed the scarf meant to hide the chains that weighed her wrists and caused her shoulders to droop. Then his gaze traveled upward to her face. He saw the bruise, he saw the cut at her lip, and he saw her eyes—for the briefest of moments.

Idona had spared a seconds glance his way, then retreated from his prolonging stare. It frustrated her deeply to be interrupted in the moment she herself wanted to speak to the Allfather. Cut off and dragged back to her pit of placidity—whether content or not.

Would she ever have the chance to speak for herself?

"This does not concern you, Loki," Odin said, his fingers curling into the armrests of his throne. "I suggest you leave us to these proceedings at once."

Loki didn't stop. Oh no, he was far too intrigued by this mortal, dressed in peasants clothes and presented as some sort of offering on her parents behalf. Loki's eyes found the father's, and narrowed. Scrutinizing—a wistful smirk still plastered on his face. He enjoyed the sight of a mere mortal man, squirming under his eye.

"Do you find it as amusing as I do?"

Ivar resisted the urge to glare at him. What about this was amusing to him? He blinked a couple of times before saying: "I beg your pardon?"

Loki chuckled, starting to circle the three mortals, like a predator approaching his prey. "Amusing," he repeated. "You speak as if you're here only to preserve the reputation of your lineage—"

"Loki," Frigga tried to interrupt, her voice steady and calm. "Let us tend to this matter."

"—yet you stand there like you don't believe the damage can be reversed."

"Loki," his mother warned again.

"How dare you suggest—" Idona's father tried.

Loki tilted his head to the side—grinning. "I don't suggest a thing," he said, his eyes roaming back over to Idona. She held her head high, but never once making eye contact with anyone.

"I'm stating a fact," Loki continued. He stepped around Ivar, his curiosity controlling each stride. "Attempting to disguise a murderess—" he grabbed the cotton scarf hiding Idona's chains, and took it away with a flourish "—though the walls themselves know the crimes she's committed."

Idona froze.

Loki stood like a giant over her frail figure. "Are you ashamed of your actions?"

Idona almost looked at him. Almost. She was taken aback…

He asked her a question. And though she didn't want to meet his gaze, she started once again to open her mouth.

"Of course she's ashamed!" Dagny cut in, sharp toned, teetering on desperation. So much so that Loki started to chuckle. "The wretch is here to beg for mercy she does not deserve!"

"Madam," said Frigga, standing beside Loki. "Raising your voice will not hasten these proceedings."

Ivar clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. His blood boiled, and without another thought he stepped forward, closing the distance between he and Frigga. Daring to get into the face of the Queen of Asgard.

"We are desperate to wipe her misdeeds off our hands!" Ivar shouted, jabbing a shaking finger into Frigga's face. But the Queen lifted her chin, meeting the daring man's glare head on, ever composed. "Do you not see the monster she's become?"

"Fool," Loki growled, sliding between his mother and Ivar like a stone wall. A storm of green in his eyes. "Have you not dug your grave deep enough already?"

"You have no say here!" Shouted Ivar.

"I want it taken care of!" Dagny snapped.

Suddenly, Odin's voice cut in over the chaos that echoed against the throne room walls. "Young lady."

Silence settled over them all. Heads turned slowly towards the Allfather—no longer sitting on the throne, but standing. Speaking directly to Idona. Idona—her strength to remain on her feet wavering—finally lifted her eyes to Odin.

"Young lady, have you anything to say in your own defense?"

Idona paused. She waited for her mother to jump in and answer for her. Or her father to say something in favor of mending his reputation. Neither spoke. But all eyes were trained on her. It made her even more uneasy. What if she said the wrong thing? Would she be executed? Would this be her final opportunity to speak for herself? Could they all sense she truly bared no shame for what she did?

All the blood drained from her face. She felt ill. Yet she inhaled evenly and opened her mouth for a third time.

"I—" a lump in her throat cut her off instead. She swallowed three times before she could continue. "My lord, I'm afraid…" her voice came out barely louder than a whisper.

"Why, my child?" asked Frigga.

Idona swallowed again, lifting her head higher, rolling her shoulders back as she made the choice to commit. Yes she had killed him. And she didn't care.

"I'm afraid I cannot deny my actions. I have no worth in my parents eyes." Idona didn't look at anyone—not her mother, not her father—except for Odin. "And I believe they have no right to use me as a token for the mending of their bloodline. If I am executed they cleanse the palette. They achieve the honor and status they desire.

If I had the right—the ability to choose for my own sentencing—I would beg to live in servitude to you. That way they still live in shame of their own flesh and blood, and my life is spared."

Off to the side, Loki's eyes twinkled. There was something about the way she held herself that made him more curious for his own good. Curious for why she committed such a heinous crime and how she was able to hold her head high and her shoulders square.

Idona watched as Frigga walked up the steps to the throne, to her king. She started to whisper with him, and Idona felt her gut clench. Like someone had plunged their hand into her midsection, grabbed hold of her stomach and squeezed. She was certain this would be her last day alive. Breathing.

She focused her attention on the metal around each of her bony wrists. How it cut and rubbed against her skin, and rattled if she moved even a fraction of an inch. The scarf her mother had tied around them was gone, tossed aside by Loki. The only one in the room—besides Idona herself—who wasn't ashamed for her. As if he desired to know…

After moment after moment of sheer tension. The desperate wonder for what would happen next built and built within each of them. Each knew there were two choices from which Odin would choose.

Execution.

Or servitude.

Idona's parents begged for her to be penalized and given death. While she begged for a sliver of mercy. But not for her parents. They deserved no mercy. Not from her, not from the Allfather.

She stood there, feeling like the floor would give way beneath her feet. Wanting the Bifrost to swallow her whole. And if not her, then her parents. They didn't even deserve that title.

Odin spoke first.

"Idona—daughter or Ivar and Dagny," he began. Slow. Steady. Idona wished he would sentence her quicker. Get to the end so she could let go of this breath she held onto.

"From this moment forward you will be known to all as Idona—betrothed of Loki, Son of Odin, Prince of Asgard."

Loki's head snapped to the side.

Idona's heart nearly stopped.

"What?"

They spoke in unison. Shock rooted them both to the floor. Idona's already drained face lost what little color it had left, while beside her, Loki's lunged filled with a breath so deep, she could hear it and she wondered what went through his mind in that split second.

Mother and Father were in hysterics. Ivar shouting at the Allfather for the "unfairness" of his decision. Dagny grabbed Idona's arm and threw her to the ground in front of them, screaming. Idona hit the floor hard, already feeling bruises form beneath her skin at her shoulder, her elbow. A hard knot under her hairline from where her head met the ground.

"You harpy!" Dagny screeched. "I should have drowned you the moment I birthed your carrion ass!"

"Control yourself woman!" Odin's voice boomed.

Murderous rage filled Ivar's vision. His blood boiling in his veins. He wasn't about to let Odin make the choice of whether this bitch who wore his skin, live to see the sunset.

He lunged at his own daughter, hands ready to strangle her. He straddled the young girl, who was unable to defend herself, and was still stunned from having been tossed to the floor like a used, dirty rag.

In Ivar's moment of pure rage, Idona saw what she must've looked like when she committed her murder. She saw the red hatred in her own father's eyes. Her hands came up to try and protect herself, but her chained wrists gave her little to no defense. Ivar's hands grappled for purchase around her scrawny neck.

Idona saw spots almost immediately—the oxygen stole from her lungs. Not just from the pressure on her throat, but from the sheer force at which her head was spinning. All at once she had been named betrothed to a prince, and almost killed by the hands that conceived her.

"ENOUGH!" Shouted Odin. But Ivar was so lost that he didn't hear.

Dagny did nothing to save her daughter. No… she was for her husband's actions. She was gleefully clapping her hands, yelling through rage filled tears to make him kill Idona.

Loki—though still stunned himself—leapt into action the second Ivar throttled Idona. Dagny was on Loki's arm trying to stop him from saving who was now his betrothed.

Frigga rushed down the stairs behind Odin's hurried steps. She had seen mortals do idiotic things before. But this was among the worst of them all.

Loki wrenched Ivar off of Idona and threw him to the floor a good five feet away from them, tossing Dagny off his arm in the same throw. He caged Idona under his body, unknowingly. He glared daggers at Ivar and Dagny all while Idona caught her breath beneath him, gasping and choking on air.

Odin barked at them all to stop. In fact…he went further than that. "You would slay your daughter in my sight?" He stormed over to where Ivar tried to get back onto his feet.

"Allfather," Dagny tried, despair in her voice while she wobbled on her shaky legs. "Please, I beg of you."

"SILENCE!" Odin's staff hit the floor and echoed like thunder in the empty hall. "By my word, your name is now struck from the halls of Asgard! Your line is cut off! You house is fallen!"

Dagny clutched at her own throat as if she too had been throttled, nearly choked to death and was now desperate for breath. Ivar began to hyperventilate, kneeling on the cold marble floor before Odin.

Guards hurried forward at Frigga's beckoning. Ivar and Dagny were grabbed by the arms and forced to their feet, starting the long drag out of the throne room.

"NO! PLEASE!" they screamed. Begging for their honor to be spared.

"Father," Loki said, but his voice was lost in the next sentence out of Odin's mouth.

"Your daughter is now of Asgard! Protected by its throne, bound to the name of Loki. You shall never hear her name spoken again. She bears a new name in the eyes of the Norns—etched in the roots of Yggdrasil! And you shall not know of it for the rest of your cursed lives!"

"Father… I think you're making a—"

Odin gave Loki a sharp glare, silencing his own son. Frigga nodded lightly, assuring Loki this was final. This was for the good of them all, and entirely out of Loki's control. Whether he argued or not.

Tears streamed down Idona's cheeks as she lied there beneath Loki. She didn't attempt to watch as the guards hoisted her mother and father out of the room kicking and hollering. All Idona saw was the jaw of Loki—her betrothed—who watched Odin as his father continued to denounce Ivar and Dagny.

"You shall never set foot in Asgard again! And if you do, I will strike you where you stand! Your very breath will not disgrace this realm again."

The doors slammed shut. Cutting the strings that once attached Idona to her parents. Severing the ties that once weighed her to the bottom of the ocean of their disdain. Idona's body relaxed on the floor. Releasing every bit of tension that had been locked inside her for years. She hadn't realized it until Loki glanced down at her. He was quick to remove himself from atop her.

"What have you done?"

Odin finally turned to his son. But said nothing.

Frigga bent at the knee to bring Idona into a sitting position. The motion made Idona dizzy. But the touch of someone who wanted to help her was welcome in the aftermath of what had just occurred. Her breath was quick, and her heart pounded against her ribs. What had occurred? It all happened so fast it all seemed a blur in her mind. She couldn't convince herself to even attempt to remember anything. She didn't want to save the memory. It wasn't worth keeping.

The Queen brushed dark hair off of Idona's forehead and smiled at the young woman. "You are free, child. Breathe easy. You've done well."

Odin stepped around Loki, dismissing his son's query. Loki rolled his eyes to the ceiling before shutting them and pinching the bridge of his nose in disbelief.

"Father—" Loki said, but again, was interrupted.

"You will no longer be known as Idona," Odin's voice came down several octaves since the denouncing of her parent's bloodline, and took on a kinder tone to match Frigga's gentle touch. "From this moment forward you shall be called Ylva. For I see your strength. You're a wolf with no pack, and that strengthens you."

Ylva. A name she felt unworthy of. Yet… she accepted without contest. She heard the name and knew it severed her from her past life. It was relief she felt settling in her bones, her chest. Her head throbbed from the impact of being thrown. Fresh, hot tears, flooded her eyes, no longer lit from the fear that once flickered within her. A deep sensation of relief that rushed through her veins.

Frigga smiled gently at Idona. "Dry your eyes now, dear," she said, cupping her cheek.

Idona flinched. A small gasp escaped her lips. She couldn't remember when she had started crying, only that the tears hadn't stopped flowing since.

Loki's fist clenched at his side, his jaw tightening as he watched his mother guide his newly betrothed to her feet, though unsteady.

"Father, I don't understand," Loki once again started to grasp for answers, but was cut off.

Odin turned sharply, glaring at him with his single eye. A look that silenced Loki swiftly—but not fully. His brow furrowed in vexation.

Idona was left on the cold marbled floor—Ylva was the one who stood. Each of them saw it. Felt it.

"I don't understand why you would—"

"Enough, boy!" Odin roared, causing Ylva's shoulders to hunch, curling away from his deafening volume.

"I have made my decree!" He stepped closer to Loki—who held his ground, eyes burning with barely controlled defiance—and lowered his voice. "Do not speak again until your mother has secured your bride in her chambers."

Loki's jaw ticked, his eyes flickering past Odin's shoulder to Frigga who started to guide Ylva down the aisle toward the doors at the end. Frigga's hands hovered, one at her back and the other near Ylva's still chained wrist. Loki watched the hem of her stained dress drag behind her with each careful step. He took in the way her braid hung limp, snarled and frizzy. He knew deep down this would be the last time she appeared to him in such a disheveled state. The next would be when the dirt was washed from her pale skin, and dressed in the Aesir's finest gowns.

He was terribly desperate to understand why. Why would his father choose to arrange a marriage between him and this mortal woman? Was this punishment? And if so, why Loki? Out of the two sons of Odin, was he chosen just because he was there when the decision was made?

As he watched, Ylva turned at the last moment, meeting his gaze over her shoulder with something one might call indifference, but Loki saw a glimmer—if only—of amity.

The doors shut with a solid thud. Sealing him in with with his father. And finally, Loki took his chance.

"Explain to me what you've done!" Loki's voice echoed against each wall. "Why?"

"Why?" Odin repeated harshly. "Because you have to ask, Loki!"

Loki's eyes narrowed further, inhaling deeply through his nose to fight the urge to speak over his father.

Odin continued. "You lack the foresight to understand the decision that's been made."

Loki's mouth fell open. "The decision that's been made was done so without consulting either party! I have the right to know the answer to my question!"

"I know somewhere in your cold chest that you already know the answer."

Odin turned, his staff pounding the floor. The ultimate answer to Loki's why.

The chambers Ylva was shown to was enormous. The walls were a pristine, soft golden color, etched with the ancient spiraled art of the gods. A balcony overlooked Asgard, but Idona—Ylva knew it wasn't a view she would ever be able to see for what it truly was. Never looked at through her eyes; it didn't matter which name she beheld.

In the center of the room was a bed larger than she had ever known before. Adorned with down pillows and quilts that looked like they were spun from pure gold. Canopied with sheer, veil-like curtains that glittered in the setting sun.

The ceiling was painted in muted reds and yellows, browns and blues. Images of eagles, paintings of foxes, lions and wolves. Rain and snow. A scenery one might stare at for hours before falling into dreams alive with such creatures above head.

While she stared at the room before her, Ylva felt the chains come off her wrists. A guard had removed them as swiftly as they had been put on.

Frigga dismissed the guard and came to stand beside Ylva. Her hands were clasped in front of her, but not firm, not in an expectant way, just as calm and ethereal as she always had been.

"How are you feeling, my child?"

Ylva realized her cracked lips had been parted in awe for some time. She licked them quick and closed her mouth.

"You don't need to answer," Frigga said, her hand coming up to rest on Ylva's shoulder, but she paused before she touched the young woman. "I understand how overwhelmed you must be. I promise you that feeling will fade."

Ylva's eyes flickered down. Then up again to meet Frigga's gaze. What she found when she did was a look she hadn't seen once before. The look of a mother's.

It was warmer than she expected. A feeling that spread throughout her body starting from her chest, and reaching her toes. She felt tears burn her eyes. And though she tried to hold them in, she broke. She choked on sobs, her knees wobbled like she were a wooden puppet on strings. She collapsed to the floor in a heap. Back on the floor again, this time in the company of no one but Frigga and Idona—the woman of her past staring her down from the wood carved mirror.

Frigga followed her to the floor. This time she braced Ylva, placing her hand on her shoulder. The touch made Ylva's sobs worsen into moans of despair. But not for the life she left behind—for the future. Her future. A future paved for her walk along, beside Loki—Prince of Asgard.

Frigga knew. The turmoil Ylva now felt would have her—like the chains she was released from—until she herself would come to accept it. And instead of consoling her, Frigga took to explaining how Ylva would live now that she was of Asgard.

"You will have handmaidens," she said over Ylva's sobs. "They will be at your beck and call. They will help you wash, and dress. You will be fed generously, so eat well, my child." Frigga brushed a stray lock of hair out of Ylva's eyes, then touched her chin and tilted her face up. "You may not forget where you've come from, but know in time you will know your place among Asgard."

With Ylva still sobbing, her tears forming a puddle beneath her, Frigga beckoned over two handmaidens who were to be Ylva's. The girls gently took Ylva by the arms and guided her to the washroom.

Ylva stood at the basin, watching as they carefully scrubbed the blood from under her nails. Ylva watched through blurred vision as his blood tinted the water that putrid red color. She saw the bruises that those chains caused her wrists, and the rust they left behind.

Before she knew it she had been bathed thoroughly and dressed in a simple, yet elegant nightgown. Her bare feet once covered in dirt, padded slowly across the floor to the vanity where she sat as her handmaidens undid her long dark braid. They began to untangle the mess of knots and twists, combing through each strand while Ylva watched in the reflection.

Ylva tilted her head from one side to the other. Even her face was clean. Her bruise looked more prominent without the guise of dirt. Her lip more swollen without the dribble of blood in the corner of her mouth.

She held her hands up. Slowly turning them to look at her nails; the crevasses which were devoid of the blood that had stained each one a mere thirty minutes ago.

"Ylva," she spoke to the mirror.

"Ylva," she said more firmly.

It sounded so wrong coming from her own lips. She wondered how it would have sounded coming from her parents. She tensed immediately at the thought. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking their image from her mind. She had left them behind with Idona.

To stop the thoughts from springing up again, she imagined Frigga saying the name in her soft, comforting tone. The almost fatherly voice of Odin… and maybe, for a moment, she heard Prince Loki speak it. A chill ran through her, but she brushed it off like it were a spider crawling up her arm.

The chill transformed into a soft, warm feeling; the touch of the brush being combed through her long black hair calmed every thought within her. She'd never experience such a sensation. The gentlest massage that made her scalp and neck tingle with sweet relaxation.

She pressed her now moisturized lips together, feeling the smoothed skin as a balm to her racing thoughts. "Ylva…" she whispered, her eyes closing while she let her new name ring tenderly throughout the chambers she now called her own.

A name she wished—on each and every star outside her balcony—would become her own... Though for now it felt so foreign, she was no longer Idona—daughter of Ivar and Dagny. No longer Idona—the murderess.

She was Ylva—she-wolf—betrothed of Loki—the trickster god.

Ylva—daughter of Asgard.

Chapter Text

"What's your name?"

The shorter of the two handmaidens who were in service to Ylva, glanced up at her in the vanity mirror. Her look of surprise faded into a kind smile. She continued to brush out Ylva's hair as the sunshine of a new dawn shone through the large open doorway to the balcony.

"I am Kelda, My Ladyship," she said in the softest of whispers. She appeared far younger than her equal. Her features delicate and kind, her thin hair reflected gold from the sun in a soft caramelized way.

Ylva inwardly flinched at the term 'my ladyship'. She didn't deserve to be called such. Especially when she hadn't even been wed to Loki yet. She looked up at the second handmaiden. "And yours?" she asked.

"Svan, My Ladyship."

Svan's voice sounded much deeper than Kelda's. She held herself proudly, as if serving Ylva was something to be proud of. Svan's skin was of deep ebony, flawless and gleaming every which way she moved. Her hair cropped short, curled naturally, beautifully. In a way that Ylva envied.

Ylva envied them both. Though they were opposites of each other—one reserved, one confident—they each stood there, unafraid of Ylva.

"You shouldn't call me that," Ylva said.

Kelda exchanged a glance with Svan, pausing mid-brush. "What do you mean, My Lady?"

"That," Ylva's shoulders hiked. "I am no lady. You should not address me as such."

Svan shook her head. "You believe you're undeserving of a title?"

"I'd rather you call me by my name."

Kelda's eyes widened, her lips parted, wanting to argue their place and protocol. Svan gave her a pointed look, and then nodded to Ylva in the mirror. "Alright then," she said. "Lady Ylva. Or are you uncomfortable with that as well?"

Ylva sat, silent for a moment. Letting the title wash over her. It wasn't fully the title they wanted to call her by, or the name which had been given to her, yet it felt easier on her soul to hear.

"That—that will be fine." Ylva shivered, the brush tickling her neck. She felt tears brim her eyes. She was suddenly back in that mansion. Back under the hand of Thrain. She could feel his hand gripping her throat… pinning her down…

She grabbed the nape of her neck, hoping they would stop. Another pass and she was quivering.

Another pass and she wanted to vomit.

Finally, she'd had enough. She rose vehemently from the stool and backed herself against the nearby wall. She swallowed, eyeing her handmaidens through blurry vision. They started to approach her, saying things that Ylva couldn't decipher over her own heart beat. She knew they posed her no threat. She knew. But the feeling was there, just beneath her skin, unwavering. As if the man she killed could've appeared behind her at any given moment.

Ylva held a hand up and stopped Svan and Kelda from coming near her. Then she turned her wrist; her hand palm up.

"I'd like to finish, please."

Svan held Kelda's shoulder and attempted to take one more step closer to their Lady.

"STOP!" Ylva shouted, her voice cracking, echoing in her chambers. Her breath came out ragged and quick; her lungs burned, desperately clinging to any oxygen they could.

Ylva shook her hand, open to receive a comb. "I will finish," she said hoarsely. Her tears finally ran over, clearing her vision enough to see Kelda holding the handle of the comb out for Ylva to take from her.

She barely had her fingers around the smooth wood before she dropped it to the floor where it clattered. An apology left her lips before she even knew it had. She knelt, wobbly on her hands and knees to pick up the comb…

Ylva was met there by Svan and Kelda, kneeling, watching as tears dripped from Ylva's chin to the marble floor.

"We wish you no harm, Lady Ylva," Svan said softly, firmly. "If you desire to comb your own hair, you have every opportunity to do so. We shall resume our other duties."

"There's plenty for us to do," Kelda said, clutching her fingers tightly.

A long moment passed between them all. Silent, but for Ylva's harsh breath. A long moment that slowed, easing the thought into Ylva's mind that she was okay. That Thrain wasn't there with her. That he was dead. She was free—from him. It would take time for Ylva to feel truly free from any cage she was ever put in.

The palace dining hall was filled with the scent of sausage, smoked over dried lemon thyme and sage. Freshly baked bread and sweet butter warmed the air.

Loki picked at his palm, treading the dining hall's floor at an agonizingly slow pace. His thoughts spiraled, though his expression remained impassive. The heavenly smell of hot, clove spiced cider and toasted hazelnuts reached his nose, but didn't register beyond the frustration stewing behind his eyes.

"The nerve," he muttered to himself, his words lost beneath the aimless chatter of Thor and his friends. "To think I'd roll over. To think I'd obey."

The lines in Loki's brow deepened, his back turned toward the long table overflowing with the bountiful Asgardian breakfast, which his brother and company devoured ravenously.

"Loki!" shouted Volstagg. "Why don't you join us?"

Loki had little time to turn and glance over his shoulder before he heard them continue.

"He's too occupied with his plans to run away," Fandral chuckled before bringing a mug of cider to his lips.

Loki gritted his teeth, pinching the skin below his thumb. It wasn't their teasing that irritated him so. "Does my father truly see me as a sculpture he can chisel away at all he pleases?"

Thor—with a mouthful of fry-pan potatoes—and Sif exchanged a glance, smirks on both their faces.

"If you're a sculpture," said Fandral. "then Thor must be a boulder yet."

A piece of still-warm bread hurled through the air—courtesy of Thor, still grinning through his chewing—and smacked Fandral in the face while Loki resumed his pacing, not so much as a glance their way.

"I have asked for him to explain his decrees," Loki said. "And all he manages is to tell me that if I do not understand, then I shall never understand."

Thor propped his feet up onto the table, lacing his fingers behind his head, as if watching Loki spiraling was as entertaining as theatre.

"He expects me to not understand," Loki continued, turning into his pace. "But does he expect me to stand idly by and never speak?"

"You're going to wear a canal in the middle of the hall, brother."

"I never asked for a bride!"

Loki's voice echoed against the hall's expansive ceiling, silencing everyone for a measly few moments. Enough time for Loki to continue his wandering.

"I would have asked for a bride," Fandral said to Volstagg, biting into a sausage.

The bearded man shook his head. "Of course you would."

"A mortal bride," Loki spat. "One who killed her former husband."

"Oh?" Sif's brow arched. "A murderer? That sounds about right for the sort of woman you'd be bound to."

Loki halted mid stride, the table to his back.

Hogun let out a long breath, giving Sif a pointed look. She paid him no mind, grabbing a fistful of berries to munch on as her comment seeped into Loki's mind. Like a coarse sponge to frigged water.

"Perhaps you've expected the worst too soon, Loki." Hogun said, watching Loki's head tip to one side. "She may not be…all that bad."

Loki's jaw ticked. He turned to speak over his shoulder. "It isn't the murderess I'm concerned with."

"Well, think of it this way, Loki," Fandral said. "Perhaps the Allfather figured it would do you a fair bit of good to be wed."

Loki turned fully, a glint in his eye reflecting the buried frustration and resentment within. "I beg your pardon?"

Thor rose from the table—the legs of his chair scraping a sharp warning against the polished floor—as if he sensed Loki's impending explosion. "Loki, don't start—"

"Perhaps you'd care to explain to me then," Loki continued, thrusting a hand out to block Thor, his fingers tensed, curled like claws. Thor brushed past, nonchalantly rolling his eyes a if this were a regular occurrence. "Explain to me what bit of good it would do me, Fandral!"

"Loki," Thor tried with a grin, unafraid to rattle the cage. "Come—join us and eat!"

Loki brushed him off; far more interested in the quarrel with Fandral, whose arms were already up in defense. "I don't need sustenance." He strode across the hall to the long table, nearing Fandral in his seat.

"Loki," Fandral started, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "You must know I didn't mean it, truly."

"And you're an argr fool for it!" Loki growled.

Every one of them recoiled. Sif nearly choked on a berry as Volstagg let out a low whistle. Fandral's smile was wiped clean from his face, his mouth falling open to defend himself.

Thor met Hogun's wide eyes, then turned to grab Loki's arm, dragging him away from the table. "You're angry at the wrong people, brother."

"Well," Loki gritted out. "perhaps you would like to tell me who in particular I should be—"

"Enough brother. You'll ruin our friend's breakfast."

Loki twisted, but Thor's grip was tight. "They do not underst—" He jerked sideways suddenly, rubbing his ribs where Thor had jabbed two fingers.

"Stop it," Loki snapped, shooting Thor a sharp glare, but he just laughed under his breath. A low, familiar laugh. One that brought back memories of their days as boys; causing mischief in the palace halls.

Thor didn't relent his grip on his younger brother's arm, holding him close so he could strike again, poking at Loki's side once more.

"Ah," Loki warned, his voice wavering slightly. "Thor."

But no warning could ward off Thor's fingers, which now prodded rapidly at Loki's ribs, bringing forth a yelp—bizarre and undignified—and making Lady Sif and the Warriors Three chuckle amongst themselves. An expression of relief crossed Fandral's face. Volstagg gripped his shoulder with a laugh.

"Re-lease me!" Loki demanded, swatting at Thor's tickling touch, just as the doors at the end of the dining hall creaked open. A guard stepped in, his helmet tucked under one arm, and bowed. His sudden arrival was the catalyst which halted Thor's provoking.

"Prince Loki," the guard announced.

Shrugging Thor's hand off his arm, Loki cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Their Majesties request your presence in the main hall."

The room quieted once again. A sharp surge of vexation burned through Loki's chest at the summons, quickening his breath.

Loki quickly adjusted his tunic, tossing one last halfhearted glare in Thor's direction, as if blaming him for the heaviness that now pressed against his ribs. His hands, once steady, now betrayed a faint tremble.

The air filled with tension once more, draining any ounce of joy that had snuck into the room with them. Loki—still catching his breath—smoothed his hair back into place and without another word, brushed past Thor.

Ylva sat perched on the edge of the luxurious bed she now called her own. The night before, her body had taken to the mattress like a bird to flight, though she still could not bring herself to admit she deserved any of this treatment.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of her silk robe at her clavicle, while watching Kelda who knelt before her with a selection of shoes for Ylva to try on. Each pair detailed in different ways; some with silver, others gold, several with tiny painted spirals and heels that clacked like ice against the marble floor.

Across the room, Svan filtered through a modest—yet dignified and colorful—selection of gowns, hanging from a polished rod made of wood that naturally twisted and curled, like it was taken from an old fallen tree.

Many of the dresses were sewn with what appeared to be threads of gold, silver, even emerald and sapphire. Bodices encrusted with the tiniest of diamonds that made the deepest toned dress look like the midnight sky.

Ylva had requested the simplest of them all, not desiring of anything that helped her stand out. The ache in her chest made her believe she'd disappear in anything more, and she did not deserve such attention.

Svan plucked a deep maroon gown from the branch and spun to show it to Ylva. Ylva shook her head instantly, having seen the neckline and how low it sat, lined with polished gold brooches that drew the eye.

Svan's shoulders drooped with a huff. "Not to your standards, Lady Ylva?" She turned to hang the dress up once more, returning to her scouring.

"It's not that it isn't…pretty," said Ylva as Kelda gently guided her toes into a shoe option. "It's very loud, don't you agree?"

"Not particularly, My Lady," Svan answered, shaking her head. "I'm afraid there aren't many here that are not…loud, as you say."

Ylva shook her head at Kelda, rejecting the shoe on her foot. Too pointed for her taste. Did she have any taste? Or rather, was it merely outside of what she thought was her comfort? "I'm sorry, Svan," she said, her voice lowering. "I'm not a princess."

Svan shot Ylva a quick smirk over her shoulder. "Not yet, My Lady."

"Please," Ylva's shoulders hiked, holding her robe shut tighter. "I asked for you not to call me that."

Kelda glanced up at her, ready with the next pair of shoes. "But, you are a lady," she said, her sharp blue eyes wide.

Ylva shook her head. "A lady does not murder without reason. Only monsters do."

Svan clucked her tongue, a new dress in her arms as she walked toward the bed. "Did you kill without reason?" she asked.

A moment passed. Visual memories of the action Ylva committed—the action that nearly ended her own life—bubbled to the surface. And in that moment, Ylva allowed herself to recall the reason. The cause of her crime. She bit the inside of her cheek.

"No."

"Well then," Svan held up the dress—sky blue, A-line cut with a simple boat-neckline. The bell sleeves were made with cloud white fabric and embroidered with gold thread.

"You shouldn't have any issue wearing this option. My Lady."

Svan led Ylva through the halls. The deeper Ylva went into the palace, the smaller it made her feel. Lost among ancient paintings depicting men and women far more worthy than she.

She lifted a hand to her neck where a simple gold chain rested against her skin, cold to the touch, besides which she wore no other jewelry.

Out of habit, she glanced at her fingernails, expecting the dried blood which had stained her skin, to still be there. But when she saw the pristine little half-moons, she remembered how Kelda had scrubbed them clean the night before.

Grand doors greeted them quicker than she had hoped. For a brief moment, Ylva caught a look at herself in a nearby, grand vase. Shaped like an urn—formed from jagged gold lines, and bits of lapis sparkling the way she imagined the Glovaettir might—towering over her, like everything else inside the palace. It's shining surface reflected a foggy depiction of herself.

Ylva's blue dress appeared grey and cloudy, like some faint memory or distant future. Her long black locks sat in their natural waves against her back, strands springing up to frame her face.

She could still see Idona staring back at her. Was it resentment she saw in her own eyes? Or was it some form of of pride? Whatever it was, Ylva didn't want to allow herself to be sucked back into those old thoughts, old feelings… Old memories.

She could see her father in that reflection. A flash of his murderous, rage filled face swirled against the vase, mixing with her own. Her fingers which fiddled with her necklace, crept up to her neck where she swore she could still feel his tight grip constricting her breath.

"Are you alright My Lady?"

As if Svan's voice yanked her out of a deep well, Ylva recalled where she stood now. In front of giant solid gold doors flanked by guards with long staffs to ward off those who were unwelcome. To think Ylva would walk right past them, made her stomach flip. Still of the belief that she did not belong among gods.

"Yes," Ylva lied, forcing a small smile. "Thank you."

Svan returned a more genuine smile before stepping back. The guards pulled the doors open for Ylva to pass through. She pressed her palms to the smooth fabric of her dress and started forward, her shoes clacking loudly in her own ears.

The moment Ylva crossed the threshold, she heard it. The shouting.

"You've made a decree without consulting me—"

"I have made my decree for the good of you both—"

"—to silence me is the last thing you should want as a father!"

"I have made my decree! It is your duty to follow through."

"Follow through? With a marriage I had no say in?"

"You should be contented knowing you are allowed to marry in any circumstance!"

Silence.

Ylva stood frozen, the tension between Loki and his father seeped deep into her chest. A heavy, suffocating sensation. The desire to turn and bolt, rushed through her veins. They weren't shouting at her, but she knew she had been the cause of their disagreement.

It was there in the silence that Frigga approached her. Ylva instinctively stepped backward, hoping to melt into the wall and disappear entirely.

"I—I should have waited," Ylva whispered. "My apologies, Your Majesty—"

"Nonsense my child," Frigga smiled, placing a hand on Ylva's shoulder to encourage her to come further into the hall. "You've arrived precisely when you were meant to."

The main hall, echoed the grandness of the throne room. Four main columns framed each corner. the expansive ceiling, carved with whimsical spirals that mimicked the moon and looked down on them in the same way. Candelabras; their small flames flickering like shadows against the walls they lined.

Along the far wall, were open windows, letting the midday sun stream across the polished floor. And in the center of the floor was a circular sunken area, adorned with cushions and enclosing a large fire pit filled with glowing embers.

Frigga's gentle guiding hand urged Ylva to the steps leading down into the sunken area, and though Ylva knew her feet were moving, every other part of her remained fastened to the floor near the entrance.

From where Loki stood in the circle, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders taught with residual anger, his eyes flicked up to the mortal woman as she approached. His gaze, full of spite, softened slightly.

He expected to see her hair in that same, raggedy braid. Expected the same moth-eaten dress. The same smudged skin… Instead he found himself staring at a woman free from the confines of her past life.

Ylva.

Loki allowed himself a chance to behold the creature standing before him. The mortal woman accused—unashamed—of murder. Now bound to him for the rest of eternity—which, he thought pitifully, may be a cage all its own.

A mere night separated him from when he saw her last, but he remembered the hint of amity that glimmered in her eye before the throne room's doors severed her from his sight. He hadn't met her gaze since.

"Ylva, sit here."

Frigga's voice cut through his incessant thoughts, bringing his focus back to the present. Loki waited for Ylva to find her place before he too sat, opposite her. His father began to speak again, and with a slow, deep inhale through his nose, Loki forced himself to listen.

"I trust your night was accommodating?" said Odin.

Ylva only nodded.

Frigga sat beside Odin, her fingers laced in her lap. "Your lady's maids were hospitable?"

Loki watched as Ylva nodded again, the ghost of a smirk gracing his lips for the first time that day. Then his father's voice stripped it away just as quickly.

"From the moment you were named Festarkona Loka," said Odin. "your past was erased. There will be certain..." he watched Ylva. Not in any way in particular. The pause spoke for itself, making Ylva's skin prickle with nerves. Then he continued, "Behaviors you will be expected to cease entirely."

"Behaviors?" Ylva bit her tongue, desperately clamping her mouth shut to save herself from overstepping. Her hands clenched into tight fists, crinkling the silk of her dress. It was as if she had stepped out of her old, rusted, iron cage, only to find herself back behind it's bars. Though now it seemed to have been made of silver and gold, gemstones and pearls.

Odin and Frigga shared a glance. "There will be many," Odin said. "throughout the Nine Realms, who know of your origins. I intend to keep your new name honorable. No one will question your actions outright, unless deemed necessary; and I expect complacency in your role within these walls."

"Role?"

"Once wed, your duty here among Asgard, shall be to remain at Loki's side."

Odin's words hit her like a gust of wind come to steal her breath. It became apparent to Ylva in that very moment that Odin expected her to fall into place like a peg into it's carefully crafted hole. Like her very existence threatened to tarnish the image of the Alfather's shining kingdom.

Why give her a new name? Why bind her to Loki? Why give her a noble title if he feared she would spontaneously repeat the action that brought her near demise? An impulse it seemed Odin was preparing to see arise in her once more.

And still… Ylva knew she was tasting the sugary icing of freedom she never once licked in all her life. The gold necklace that sat at her neck: a collar chained to some leash? Or a sliver of courage she had yet to wear with pride?

Ylva politely cleared her throat—the sound reverberating throughout the expanse around them—as she shifted uncomfortably in her place on the solid marble bench. Her mouth wanted nothing more than to speak, but her head pleaded with it to remain shut.

Neither obeyed.

"Duty," she said. "implies function. Not purely allegiance, but task. Am I right in understanding your expectations are for me to be a trophy on the arm of a prince who did not win me in some triumphant battle, but forced to wield me as if I were a polished shield in the face of Asgard's people?"

That was when Loki broke into a true grin. He lounged, ankles crossed, arms resting along the edge of the sunken pit, watching, listening as his betrothed now spit fire like the dragon he assumed she was before he had even laid eyes on her. Every word from her lips caused him to see her more, to feel as though he knew the woman hiding beneath her nervous facade. Though he still knew little to nothing.

"You ask for a task?" Odin said, requiring clarification.

"I ask for purpose," Ylva replied.

Frigga, sat beside Odin with a subtle smirk. A proud twinkle danced in her eye. "You shall have purpose, my child," she said. "This arrangement does not diminish your sovereignty. It merely seeks to emphasize what strengths you already possess. In time."

"And if that does not transpire," Loki snuck in. "You'll still make a lovely shield."

Ylva's eyes snapped to him, holding his gaze for what felt like hours. He never blinked. Not once. Ylva's brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing in a desperate attempt to win. A silly challenge neither planned.

As milliseconds passed, Ylva felt that Loki was peering deeper and deeper into the depths of her soul, like a rock sinking to the bottom of an ocean.

She was the one who ended the contest, her lashes fluttering with one long, slow blink as her gaze retreated to the fire pit.

She wished for him to never reach inside her like that again.

"In two days time," Odin said. "the two of you shall be wed. The ceremony will be a public affair. Nobles of Asgard will be in attendance. You will speak the traditional vows, exchange bands, and Frigga shall bless the union."

Loki observed as Frigga's fingers grazed Ylva's own which sat clenched in her lap. He caught the flinch she was unable to fully control. Her shoulder's quivered as she released a silent, shaky breath through her parted lips.

"A handfasting will conclude the ceremony," said Frigga. "And you will be announced as one before the court. A week of celebration will follow, as is custom."

Ylva nodded once, her chin dipping nearer her chest to hide her face. Her head spun, to think of people celebrating a marriage neither her, nor Loki—it seemed—desired, she thought of what might be done to her if she resisted now. The execution her parents wanted to take place was never too far gone from her mind.

Two days from now she would take Loki's hand and be pledged to him, for the rest of her years. However many she may have left.

Odin turned to Loki. "Do you have any more objections, Loki?"

Loki, still watching Ylva—observing the mortal through a new lens, one borne of curiosity—responded, his smirk never waning.

"No more than I've already made."

Chapter Text

The palace gardens were lush with vibrantly colored flowers, old knotty trees, and a purling brook glittered in the mid-afternoon sun.

Ylva glanced over her shoulder. She could see the open archway that Frigga had led her through just moments before, and imagined the cloud of tension they left behind with Odin and Loki in the hall.

Breathing felt easier among the green ferns and the beds of reddish pink clover creeping along the path they strolled.

"I have a confession to make, Ylva."

Their heels made soft clacks along the stone beneath them. It mimicked Ylva's own heartbeat, though the thumping in her chest sounded more like an execution drum. She tilted her head up, a breeze coursed through the leaves and brushed her raven hair across her collarbone.

She expected the worst.

"I am the one who suggested Odin betroth you to our son," said Frigga, clasping her hands in front of her.

Ylva's steps faltered. Her lips parted to ask why, but the Queen answered before she could form the question.

"I watched your own flesh and blood present you as a sacrifice." Frigga continued to walk, urging Ylva to follow of her own accord. "And I knew if I did not act, your name would be blemished for all eternity."

Ylva trailed slightly behind Frigga. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you felt you had no other option. But there's a part of me that wonders if I may be better off—"

Frigga turned to Ylva, a faint smile on her face. "A slave?"

A moment passed as Ylva watched Frigga's smile fade. "I hope you come to understand your place here is not without purpose," she continued. "I believe you will not only live a life, now free of your past, but you will thrive by Loki's side."

Ylva looked away. In her mind flashed an image of she and Loki standing beside each other. Then another of Loki, kneeling over her as she gagged on air. She could still feel her father's hands around her throat. She could still see Loki's jawline as he hovered over her after tossing her father ten feet across the throne room.

She closed her eyes quickly. Everything was happening so fast. She was still catching her breath. Still reeling.

"I may never love him," came her voice.

"You should not feel obligated to." Frigga's soft smile returned. "The marriage is simply a formality. A ceremony to establish your newfound freedom."

"Freedom?" Ylva tucked her arms around her middle, turning her face away from the Queen, hoping she didn't sound as ungrateful as she felt.

"Of course."

"But the Allfather said I should cease certain behaviors—"

"I do not see a violent woman standing before me," Frigga interrupted. "I see a woman who took matters into her own hands when her life was hanging in the balance. Whether there are behaviors that come from your actions…" she shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Neither Odin, nor I, believe you would commit an act as such without warrant. You are not expected to speak of the act, though I hope in time you might feel comfortable to share; it will not affect the way you are treated within the bounds of Asgard.

"Therefore," she continued. "you should not worry about what Odin has told you. You will have no difficulty finding your place among us."

A bird sang off in the distance through the rustle of foliage. A soft whistle that penetrated the haze of Ylva's thoughts. Her mind whirred, attempting to catch up to the moment in which she stood. Memories of what occurred only a day before. Her parents pleading for Odin to rid them of her. Loki unveiling the iron chains her mother tried to hide. Hearing her parents' screams as they tried to kill her themselves… and then their pleading as they were dragged out of the throne room.

The shame Ivar and Dagny both shoved down her throat, forcing her to feel it as well, when Ylva had felt none of it. Not since the moment she broke that vase over Thrain's head…

Tilting her head up, Ylva felt the warm sun beam down across her face. Warmth that curled within her at the idea of being free. Finally. Yes… she may be betrothed to a prince. Yes, she might live within Asgard's golden palace walls… But in that moment, she thought of what freedoms she would find. Severed from her parent's name. From Thrain. They would never know her name again.

She could start over.

Loki folded his arms firmly over his chest while he watched his mother and reluctant bride retracing their steps back to the palace. The open archway allowed a cool rush of air to curl into the hall, tousling his short black locks.

He tightened his stance at the sound of Odin's footsteps approaching from behind. And for a while, neither spoke.

"Your mother appears to enjoy her company," Odin said, at last.

Loki spared him an expressionless glance. "It was never her company I objected to," he said.

"Then what cause have you to complain?"

Loki's jaw ticked. Was he complaining? Or was he simply contesting? Was there a difference? One sounded childish. The other made it sound like some elaborate sport.

"Tell me," Loki began, "why not bring this marriage to Thor? Would not a bride calm his reckless ways?"

Thor was first in line to take the throne, if either of them were to be wed before the other, Loki should have been the last pick. Would Thor accept it easier than Loki had? Loki tried to picture his brother betrothed to Ylva. Forced to marry by the hand of Odin. Would Thor rival the decree? Would Odin have given Thor the opportunity to say no?

"Or perhaps you'd like to hold out for a better match for your favored son."

"I do not favor your brother over you."

Loki bit the tip of his tongue. He wanted to retort. He could argue for an eternity about why he knew that wasn't true. He had seen evidence of it his entire life. Would his father ever admit to it?

His eyes flickered over to Odin again, just as he turned to leave. No. No, he would never admit it. He would always play the loving father who favored both sons equally.

"Rest, Loki."

He turned to Frigga as she climbed the polished steps into the hall. She smiled at him as she had many times before, gathering her dress so as to not step on the hem. His expression of grim reluctance melting, only slightly.

"How am I to rest," he said, "when the course of my life is dependent on which finger my father lifts?"

"You'll understand, in time. As will Ylva."

Loki watched as Ylva walked up the same steps, on the opposite side of the hall. She didn't glance his way, even once, before retreating to the doors. Her hands fidgeting though her head remained high. There was something about the way she held herself—even as her nerves ate her alive—that drew Loki in, whether he was aware of it or not.

"Will she?"

Ylva pushed the door open herself. She feared the moment she got to her chambers her emotions would crumble. She left the main hall quickly, her dress moving like waves behind her every step.

Svan was there, keeping in step with her, which eased some of the urgency in her stride.

"Is everything alright, My Ladyship?" she asked.

Ylva felt warm all over. It made her woozy. Her head spun with heaps of information. The terms of this arrangement, her role in Asgard, Frigga's confession, the wedding… In two days she would be married. It left her inadequate time to come to terms with her circumstances. It hadn't even been a full week since she committed the crime that got her here, originally.

"I just…" Ylva's voice cracked, her stride slowing. "I need to be alone."

Svan replied, not missing a beat. A quick, sharp response that threatened to fully break open Ylva's emotional dam.

"There's no need for such dramatics," said her lady's maid. "You've been given a great honor, you should feel liberated."

Ylva's pace slowed even further. Svan—for the short time Ylva had known her—had urged her to take her new role in stride; to let herself fall into a place among the gods of Asgard. But Svan had never once chosen to call Ylva dramatic for not fully accepting said role. Never mocked her for her reservations. Yet at that very moment, Ylva let it go. Believing she had yet to fully know Svan for who she was.

"I don't think I'll feel relief until after the ceremony," Ylva muttered.

"Another two days for your thoughts to spiral. Are you certain you'll feel relieved once it's over?" Svan clasped her hands at the small of her back. "Correct me if I'm wrong, My Ladyship, the ceremony does not mark the end…it marks the beginning."

Again, Ylva's pace slowed. Her eyes welled with tears, her heart racing with the stress that gathered in her chest. "Yes…it does." Her eyes flitted over to Svan's feet as she walked; long, measured strides. Her shoulders straight, head high.

The slightest of tugs at the corner of Svan's mouth was what Ylva saw that made her heart sink.

"I haven't told you when the ceremony will take place, yet," Ylva whispered, coming to a full stop in the middle of the corridor. Svan stopped a couple paces ahead of her, her back to Ylva.

"You aren't Svan," Ylva continued, hugging her arms around her middle. "Svan knows she's not to call me 'Her Ladyship'."

Svan—or whoever it really was—turned slightly, just enough to meet Ylva's eyes over her shoulder.

Slowly, the image of Ylva's lady's maid transformed. Like a piece of paper burning away slowly, Svan dissolved.

Before her now, stood Loki, who turned to face her fully.

Ylva didn't say a word. Instead, she moved. Brushing past Loki, intent on making it to her chambers before her tears finally spilled over. But Loki followed. She could hear his boots chasing after her.

"I take it you aren't amused," he said.

"We haven't even wed, and you're being deceitful," Ylva snapped, her voice wavering. She wouldn't admit it, but it scared her. She had never seen transformation magic before. And the thought that her future prince husband could shift into any being—at will—truly scared her.

"Forgive me," Loki said, barely suppressing a smirk. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Lies, thought Ylva. "Am I to endure this for the entirety of our…arrangement?"

Loki gestured loosely with one hand, matching her hasty jaunt. "I was merely having a little fun." He tipped his head to one side. "You'd rather I never attempt to make your acquaintance?"

"Can I ever expect an ounce of sincerity?" Ylva's face reddened. Whether that was from her urgent bid to create space between them, or from sheer embarrassment of having spoke to Loki as if he were a trusted confidant. "Or will you cross your fingers behind your back at the ceremony?"

"My hands, and yours, will be clasped," he said with a teasing lilt. His eyes twinkling. "There will be no crossing of any fingers, my dear."

Ylva halted, nearly causing Loki to stumble into her. Her chamber doors were right there. A mere ten feet from her. All she would have to do is breeze past her betrothed and shut the door. Maybe she could lock herself away for the next two days. Maybe if she lied in bed, it would feel as if time slowed just for her. Or, if the Norns cared one bit for her pathetic life, they would stop time entirely and never allow that day to come.

Her chambers were right there.

Instead, she chose to prolong their conversation. Banter… whatever the hell it was.

"I heard what you said to Odin," she said, the words slipping past her lips.

Loki's eyes flickered to the ceiling, then to the detailed flooring at his feet. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

Ylva stepped backward once, but Loki's height made it feel like she hadn't created any more space than she had prior. "When I arrived earlier, you were arguing with your father." She swallowed. "I understand your…reservations. Especially when you've had no say in the decision." Neither of us did, she thought.

"You'll find it's a common occurrence here."

Ylva struggled to not roll her eyes. Of course he would say he's in no better predicament—he's a god. He could have anything and everything he wanted with the snap of his fingers.

She had no choice but to go along.

"Duty seldom suits what the heart wants," Loki continued.

Ylva tipped her head to the side. "But you aren't concerned with duty," she said. "You've made that terribly clear."

"Neither are you."

A beat of silence ricocheted between them.

Ylva's cheeks burned. She couldn't hold contact with his green eyes for long before her gaze retreated to the floor. Desperate to regain some form of composure, Ylva managed to say one final thing.

"I was forced to marry before. To a man far more enthusiastic than you seem…my prince." With that she turned and strutted for her chamber doors. But Loki wasn't going to let her have the last word.

"Are you implying I should apologize for my lackadaisicalness?"

With a huff, Ylva responded. "Only one who's as arrogant as you—"

"You think I'm arrogant?" Loki interrupted through a grin.

"—could make a mouthful of a word such as that sound elegant."

Ylva finally reached her doors, pushing them open just enough, and slipping through. Loki placed a hand on the wood, leaning generously so as to complicate her life even further.

"Shall I take that as a compliment?" he said.

Ylva clenched her jaw. "I suppose you'll take it however you like." Bracing herself against the door, she tried to shut it. Foolish of her to think she could rival the strength of the Aesir.

"Am I to endure this repartee for the entirety of our arrangement?" He asked, repeating her earlier words, making her cheeks far redder than they had been for their entire exchange.

"Would it infuriate you?" Ylva's voice cracked, eyeing Loki as he relinquished force on the door.

"Oh," Loki drawled, "on the contrary…it would invigorate me."

"Then I must find some other way."

"Fingers crossed."

Their eyes connected again. Another moment where milliseconds passed like minutes—hours. By the time Ylva was able to slam the door shut in his face, she felt she had aged several days. Time lost to those emerald irises.

Stolen.

Her mind raced. She pressed her forehead against the grain of the door. There was so much more… She didn't want to tell him that she saw the way he looked at her when they had first met.

And every moment after.

"I suppose I should thank you," she whispered to the door. "For protecting me when my father wrapped his hands around my throat."

Odin's guards were in the throne room when her father attacked. They could have rushed in and saved her. Loki wouldn't have had to grab Ivar and throw him off of her like a rag doll. All he would've had to do was call out for the guards. Odin—even Frigga—could have called for them. But Loki…

Chapter Text

Ylva cupped water from the basin to her cheeks. A soothing warmth to calm her thumping heart before bed. An attempt to ease the images that flipped like pages of a book through her mind. She made up her mind to avoid Loki until the unavoidable ceremony was upon them…

Kelda and Svan had left her as she requested, for the night. She hadn't broke down. Not like she anticipated she would after sealing herself in her chambers. The urge to release every sob that was teeming in her chest had been overwhelming. But she had held herself together long enough to dismiss her lady's maids.

Now, as she prepared herself for bed, she wondered where her tears had gone.

A day passed.

Before long, Ylva found herself pacing her chambers, her skin itching, her mind racing. She'd done everything she could possibly think of, within those four walls, to occupy herself. She had familiarized herself with each dress she now owned, braided her hair several times, and slept half the day away.

She was out of options. She wasn't even hungry, though she knew she should eat. Her arms were red with lines made from her own fingernails. Nothing could get her mind off of the wedding.

The only thing standing between her and the ceremony was another pass of the sun. If only she could lasso the star and hold it still for just a little while longer…

After tomorrow she would be bound for eternity to Loki. But for today, all she wanted was to get lost in something other than her own mind. She hadn't ever looked to books for escapism. But she heard there were many who found joy within pages scored with ink.

Ylva eyed the doors of her chambers. She worried who she would see if she flung open the doors. Would her betrothed be waiting for her beyond the threshold? Her stomach twisted into knots at the idea of running into anyone—let alone, Loki.

The issue was that she had no idea where the palace library was. Or even if there was a library. What would be the point of leaving her room if her search would be in vain?

She was already pushing the door open.

As Ylva walked through the halls, she kept herself as close to the walls as possible. She wore a pale peach dress with simple sleeves that hugged her wrists. The visible stitches were laced with gold thread, mimicking the late evening sun peeking through each window she passed.

She saw two guards ahead of her as she turned down one corridor. She had half a mind to turn around and flee back to the safety of her chambers…

But the closer she got, the more squared her shoulders became. She inhaled slowly, evenly.

"Excuse me," she said, her own voice making her heart beat quicker. The guard she spoke to dipped his head in a respectful bow. "Can you tell me where the library is?" She cringed internally, hoping there actually was a library, and that this guard wouldn't start laughing at her.

"Of course, My Ladyship."

Ylva let out a quiet breath of relief, then listened to the directions he gave her. She had to go back down the hall where her chambers were, but after passing her doors—though she glanced at them briefly—she continued.

The goal was to grab at least two—if not three—books to occupy her thoughts with for the final day before the wedding.

But when Ylva stepped into the library she realized the task of picking said books would be a nearly impossible task. Straining her neck, she was able to let her eyes drift up the shelves upon shelves of books. Each book case built with golden marble, framed by pillars that reached the ceiling. A ceiling which felt miles higher than the stars themselves and painted just as delicately.

Ylva spun in a slow circle, just to take it all in. An overwhelming feeling rushed over her. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust, her chest expanding with a breath her lungs were desperate for. Smelling the aging paper and crisp leather that bound each spine.

Her hand was already drifting toward a book. As she slid it out from it's perfectly snug place, her eyes caught the glimmer of the golden painted edges of each page. Her fingers graced the impression of the glittering title on the front cover. She had no idea even books were etched with sunshine.

"I didn't take you for a reader."

A choked scream jumped from Ylva's throat. She spun around, clutching the book to her chest. Her pulse skipped through her veins. Her cheeks instantly flushing a cherry red.

Loki was there. Leisurely sauntering her way. By his side, his hand gripped a book—one of the thousands that surrounded them both—with torn and wrinkled pages. Ylva noticed his height every time she saw him, but he looked shorter there among the towering bookshelves.

For a moment she just stared at him. Grasping for something—anything—to say while he waited. The setting sun through the windows grazed Loki's skin. His hair. Glinting off the gold of his tunic and the pages he held in his princely hands. Her eyes remained on the hand which held the worn book. His long fingers and clean nails…

"I…I didn't take you for one either," she said, finally.

Loki chuckled, glancing down at the book and turning it over. But he didn't comment on it. Instead he lifted his gaze back to Ylva. "I figured I wouldn't see you until after tomorrow."

Ylva turned toward a shelf, still gripping the book to her chest, and started to browse. Her eyes didn't even pause fully to read any of the titles pressed into the spines. Her mind entirely focused on Loki…who closed the distance between them faster than Ylva was prepared for.

She turned again, desperately searching the next aisle for her escape. But he followed.

"Must you crowd me?" she hissed, her face still warm.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

She wanted to tell him yes. Yes, because she wished to be alone until the inevitable ceremony. Yes, because the last time they were in the same space, he deceived her.

She wanted to tell him no. No, because she didn't want him to believe she was afraid of him. No, because she had experienced worse. Far worse.

But she didn't have to say anything. Because he spoke.

"You wish for an apology."

Ylva blinked, looking at him. "I never—"

"You didn't have to," Loki leaned against a column, watching Ylva take another book from the shelf. "It's painfully obvious."

"Is it?" Ylva snapped. "You believe a apology from you would ease my nerves?"

Loki shrugged. An action that looked ridiculous coming from a prince—a god. "Only you have the answer to that."

Ylva cracked open the third book atop the pile she cradled in her arms. Her eyes skimmed words speaking of a love affair between a man and a woman. Something about how perfectly she fit in his strong arms, the way their skin pressed against one another in the dark…

No. The answer was no. No, an apology wouldn't ease a thing. Not for Ylva. She wasn't sure anything would. And now she started to wonder if these books would even keep her mind off of…off of…

Quite suddenly, Ylva's entire body felt hot. The thought of what all of Asgard might expect from them the night of the wedding seared an image in her head she couldn't get rid of, not even after she slammed the cover of the book shut. The sound echoed throughout the library and her own skull. She could still feel Loki's eyes trained on her. She didn't dare meet them. Not now…in fact, not ever.

"Are you actually interested in soothing my nerves, or are you looking for an apology too?"

Dizzy. She felt dizzy.

"I never wished to soothe your nerves," Loki replied.

Ylva turned further away from him. "So you are looking for an apology."

"Why should you apologize to me?"

"Do you have to ask so many damn questions?" Ylva breathed as she tried to shift the books from one arm to the other, freeing a hand to press against her forehead. But as she did, the books slipped from her grasp, tumbling onto the floor. She tried to get her feet right underneath her, bracing herself on the nearest shelf.

Nearly tripping over the books now splayed on the floor, Ylva hurried for the door. She never should have left her quarters. She should have curled up under her covers and dissolved into the mattress—with nothing but the company of her own thoughts—instead of giving into the urges of her boredom. If she tried hard enough, she could make her last free day a long and uneventful one.

Those green eyes were surely following her as she escaped his company. Eyes she wished to never see again. Not even if she stood right in front of him. Not during the handfasting. Not during their vows. For as long as she was able, she would force her gaze downward.

She promised herself that. A promise—a vow—she knew she'd never break. Not even if the Allfather himself commanded her to.

He watched.

He didn't follow.

He didn't need to.

He wasn't even sure he wanted to.

Loki glanced down at the book he was reading, then at the short pile Ylva dropped in her panic. Two of which were books he's read before. Interesting picks, for sure. But picks that were made in the midst of her frantic attempt to put space between them. Thrown off by his presence, not expecting to see her betrothed, but expecting to avoid him altogether.

Loki wandered back to the chair where his reading was interrupted by Ylva. He had expected her to join them for breakfast that morning, but when she didn't, he came to the conclusion that if he wouldn't see her for one meal, he wouldn't see her for the rest of the day. And—for the most part—he was right.

Pausing mid step, Loki wondered if he should have helped her to the door. At least picked up a book for her to take with her. Should he have said more? She seemed so abhorrent to his questions. He didn't blame her. But could she blame him?

Wasn't it natural for him to be curious? To wonder…

He walked back to the books on the floor. Stooped to pick one up.

What was she like?

Chapter Text

The gown was pure snow white. The skirt pooled like milk. The hemline glittered like honey. Thread was stitched in delicate and deliberate patterns that swirled into the waistline, the neckline, and sleeves.

Kelda sat on a wooden stool, smoothing out wrinkles by pressing the rounded back of a hot silver spoon against the lace and silk fabric. Bit by bit the lines began to disappear, while the dress hung over a pot of water which sat on hot coals.

Kelda swiped the back of her wrist across her forehead where little beads of sweat had formed from the heat. She had been careful not to go over the wrinkles too fast, for fear the spoon would slip and burn her hand again. Steam curled around her face, causing her hair to frizz.

Svan leaned against the wall nearby, cooling her face with a paper-folding fan. She had started the task of steaming the delicate wedding gown, then instructed Kelda not to press too hard. "You'll melt the silk," she told her.

Kelda blushed furiously. For a dress that was so soft and seemingly easy to steam, there were lace bits that were far too stubborn for her spoon. The gowns train would take her nearly all afternoon. Perhaps longer.

"Don't make such a fuss," Ylva said, hugging herself tightly as she paced the floor of her chambers. "It'll wrinkle again before the end of tomorrows ceremony."

Svan and Kelda shared a glance. And though Kelda looked relieved that she may be free of this torture, Svan shook her head slightly. Kelda's shoulders slumped.

"Their majesties would prefer you look your best, Lady Ylva," Svan said, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.

"I'm sure," Ylva replied, curtly. For a moment she paused, her feet stalling on the polished marble beneath her feet, and remembered what Frigga had told her the day before. Some part of her remembered what Frigga had constituted as purpose for such an act, while another part of her was taking Ylva by the shoulders and shaking her. Shaking to force her to realize that maybe this wasn't freedom at all. Just another form of imprisonment.

But when Ylva glanced into the vanity mirror she saw the person she had left behind. Idona. A reflection—a ghost—of her past which had been sliced off. Not as a limb might be severed, but perhaps simply as if Idona had been a wilting flower rotting in a pot of her own decay, and was replanted in a bed of moist soil where a gardener intended for her to grow anew.

She did not blame the Queen for seeing her dismay. Her desperation. The desire to live free from under her own family's name. Her own family's chains. No. She did not blame her. But Ylva had decided she would not praise the royal family for treating her like a living being. Bare minimum as far as Ylva was concerned.

And yet…

Ylva asked herself why she thought Frigga's act of motherly kindness had such a sour taste to it. She was acting like a spoiled child who wanted sweets for dinner instead of what was placed in front of her.

Ylva didn't know how long she had been lost in her own mind. Her thoughts running absolutely mad. Chasing it's own tail like a dog would. Circles. Spinning. A headache waiting to spring up on her without warning. She needed to breathe. She needed fresh air. The balcony.

She was on the balcony before she realized she was even moving her feet. The sunshine calling to her, beaming down onto her pale cheeks, enveloping her in a warm and tingly blanket she wished she could remain in for the rest of the day.

Or else she wished it would melt her down like she was made of ice.

Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing her cheeks just barely. Her dark hair was gently tossed about by a passing breeze, causing a ripple of shivers to travel down her spine. She ignored Svan's voice as she yet again instructed Kelda on proper steaming techniques. Tuning out every word, Ylva was able to let her mind wander. A place where she stood alone, in a field of wildflowers. The soothing tune of warbling birds her only company…

She was there for what felt like several hours. Until the rhythmic sound of hooves interrupted her peaceful mindscape.

Placing her hands atop the banister, Ylva peered over the side to see a group of five horses with five riders, approaching from below.

She could just make out what a few of them were saying. She heard her name, and saw a hand gesturing up to her general position. And when the leader of the group finally tilted his head back to look up at her, she then realized it was Loki's brother—Thor.

Ylva could see his white grin just as bright as his golden locks of hair in the sun. Ylva flinched, as if debating darting back indoors. But she stopped when she heard her name coming from Thor's own mouth.

"LADY YLVA!" he shouted. "You must join us!"

The offer was instantly the most tempting offer she had ever been given. Ylva nearly threw herself off the balcony just to follow her own stomach as it leapt in anticipation. But…

Does she dare?

She leaned further over the balcony. "You haven't even met me properly," she called down to Thor. "Why should you urge me to join you? In whatever excursion you might be planning?"

"Do you not yearn for adventure, Lady Ylva?" Thor replied, his hands cupped around his mouth to carry his voice.

A grin slowly formed on her face, though at first she tried to conceal it. She tossed a glance over her shoulder at her lady's maids, still going over the wrinkles in her wedding gown. Did she dare leave them for the chance to ride with Thor and his friends? People she had yet to formally meet… And still they asked for her company.

Yes. Yes, she dared.

She flew inside her chambers and rushed to change into a dress that would be appropriate for riding. All while Svan and Kelda looked on in shock.

Ylva dressed herself in a gown that exposed white sleeves and ribbon-tied bodice which mimicked one of a peasant. She didn't mind how worn the skirt appeared or how pristine the white sleeves were. All that mattered in that moment… was that she was going to break free. If only for a day. Or a measly few hours. Who knew what sights she'd see, things she'd experience?

Svan tried to stop her. Inquiring where she was hurrying off to, but Ylva didn't answer. She only smiled at Svan and Kelda as she yanked on riding boots that were too tight for her average soles.

Kelda spoke, her small voice unsure and worried. "There is much to be done before the ceremony tomorrow, My Lady. You haven't been fitted properly in your dress."

Ylva shook her head, furiously tying her own hair back into a simple tail. "You have no immediate need of my presence. And as far as I'm concerned, you've steamed that dress plenty."

"Lady Ylva—" Svan tried.

Ylva wrapped a simple shawl around her shoulders and lifted the hood to hide her from the neck up, a twinkle in her eye that Svan hadn't seen before. "Please, I'd rather know the two of you were not working yourselves to death while I'm out trying to keep my mind occupied."

"But, My Lady…" came Kelda's appalled tone. She didn't mean to sound as such. She had no control over it.

Ylva was nearing the door, her fingers gripping the handle. "Would you…would you keep the water warm for later? And maybe draw the curtains when you get a chance?"

Before either could answer her, Ylva flew out the door and down the hall, her riding boots clacking one after the other. Not a care for how she appeared to those who would see her whiz by.

Svan turned to Kelda who gave her a small, one shoulder shrug. Neither knew what had got Ylva into such a good mood. For the few days they'd known Ylva, she had been quiet, withdrawn, and unsure. This was the first time they'd ever see her light up, acting as though something absolutely thrilling had just occurred. They wouldn't know the cause until later that night.

Chapter Text

"The murderess bride of Loki is joining our jaunt?" Sif said her lip quirking upward in the slightest of sneers.

Thor turned halfway in his saddle to smirk at her over his shoulder. "Is that jealousy I hear in your tone, Sif?" he teased.

The white walls of Valaskjalf's forecourt gleamed faintly with beams of sun. Golden crowned columns winked at the band of warriors who sat among large potted ferns and a singing water fountain, awaiting the mortal given company of Asgard's future king. Hooves clopped lazily atop light stone painted with veins of gold, their riders exchanging glances amongst themselves.

Sif's jaw tightened. "I'm not jealous of a murderess."

Volstagg rode up beside Sif as Thor swung down from his steed. "Perhaps Loki will ride with us, Thor," he said.

"I'm sure my brother would be glad to know his bride is welcome among friends," Thor replied. Completely unbothered by the way this all might look to some, least of all his closest friends. "You remember what he said the other morning."

"How could I forget?" Fandral droned.

"Loki said it himself," Thor continued. "He didn't ask for a bride. Why should he care where she goes and what she does in her own time?"

"Asgard might care," Sif pointed out. "The Allfather and Mother."

Volstagg gripped his reins a big tighter at that notion. Surely the kingdom as well as its rulers would understand ones need for fresh air. Time off from responsibility, even for a measly few hours. Wasn't that Thor's intention? To give Ylva a moment to catch her breath?

"Do you think she'll enjoy our company?" Volstagg asked.

Thor turned, holding his arms out wide. "Why shouldn't she?"

Hogun turned to Sif who inhaled deeply. "I'm sure she's experienced far more exciting things," she droned sarcastically.

"You speak as if you know more about her than we do," Hogun said.

"Perhaps I do." Sif brushed a strand of hair off her shoulder. "Does Odin believe a murderous hóra would please Loki more than any other woman?"

Fandral let out a hearty chuckle as the others shared glances.

"My father doesn't make mistakes," Thor said, his grin fading.

"She's a witch," Sif said, cutting him off. "Asgard's people will not be fooled."

The sound of the large door at the end of the forecourt sounded with a loud thud, silencing both voice and thought. All eyes turned toward the new figure standing, wearing a worn dress, a simple shawl, and an old pair of riding boots. Her hands in front of her clenched, twisting together.

As the heir to Asgard's throne and his friends lifted their eyes to her, Ylva begged her own mouth and mind to cooperate. She tasted every word that wanted to come off of her tongue and felt as they dissolved before ever slipping out between her lips. Her skin was paler than the gown waiting in her chambers.

What could she say? Had they known how long she had been standing there? Was she even welcome anymore?

Thor's grin returned the quickest. He planted his right foot one step up on the staircase, his hand resting nonchalantly on his thigh. Ylva had yet to move, but he beckoned her further into the forecourt.

"I hope my presence is still…wanted," came her timid voice. She had not planned for it to sound so quiet and unsure, but there was no taking it back. Ylva's eyes flicked from one man to the next, then finally landed on the only other woman there.

Her brow was pinched with lips turned downwards. Her head high.

Is she glaring at me? Ylva wondered. What had she done to deserve such hostility? She'd only been living there in the palace for three days. She knew some—including herself—had voiced their opinions on her role among them. But who was Ylva to explain said role to this woman?

"Well, of course you're still wanted!" Thor boomed. "You're a part of Asgard now, and there is much to see." He took hold of Ylva's hand and led her down to the group of warriors, breaking her free from the spot where she had froze, and started to make introductions.

Before long, names had been exchanged. Ylva was greeted warmly by each of them. Some shook her hand, some gave her smiles or a generous head bow. When she was introduced to Lady Sif, she was met with a glance. Then, Sif turned her head up and away.

Whatever smile Ylva tried to retain, melted in an instance. She had heard. She knew Sif didn't think much of her. No matter what she did, Ylva would never truly be accepted among these perfect, picturesque Asgardians. She would never amount to the expectations of the royal family, of those closest to them, and Ylva's own expectations. Why should she have any to begin with? She was the stranger here. She was the plant, potted among others whose roots were established long before.

"Are you ready to see the glories of Asgard, Lady Ylva?" asked Thor.

Ylva faced the large, princely form beside her. She craned her neck up to meet his enthusiastic grin. At last the thought of fleeing the palace filled her mind. Imagining what this world she had been sucked into, looked like through Thor and friend's eyes.

"Ylva," she whispered. Then again louder. "Ylva, please."

Thor's grin softened. "Are you ready, Ylva?"

Ylva breathed. Her chest expanding, allowing that feeling of freedom—however long it may last—to completely fill and envelope her. Then, she nodded.

She watched Thor jump into the saddle of his horse. He reached down, offering his hand to Ylva. The largeness of his hand shrank not only the size of her own, but her fear as well. She hopped a little on her toes and swung a leg up. With Thor's help she settled in right behind him.

It felt real now. Her fingers curled instinctively into Thor's deep crimson cape. The horse's hooves anxiously clacked on the stone ground. Eager for adventure. The others rode off ahead of them. Thor didn't urge his horse forward until he knew Ylva was hanging on.

It was like lightning that shot through her the moment they were off. Her skin prickled with goosebumps which raced from her scalp to the ends of her toes. They barreled through the streets of Asgard, the golden walls and brick cobblestone underfoot blurring as they whizzed by. Ylva caught glances of women in long, flowing dresses, and children kicking a brown ball back and forth.

Ahead of them, Sif and Volstagg took a sharp turn, the others following close. Ylva was just quick enough, managing to wrap her arms around Thor's waist. She felt his chuckle rumble through his chest right before he tore down the same road. At the end was a low, stone wall.

Ylva squeezed her eyes shut. They were airborne only for a moment. Ylva could feel the horse scaling a hill. Golden light flickered behind her eyelids. She heard the boisterous laughter and conversation from Thor's friends ahead of them, getting louder the higher they climbed.

Thor's horse slowed to a stop. Ylva had yet to release her grip on him, until he patted her hand, and her eyes flickered open to take in the view.

Green.

They were surrounded by lush, towering trees and waving grass. Flowers full of deep crimson, blues that echoed the expanse above, and pale, buttermilk yellows. A sudden breeze rustled through the leaves. A chilling gust of air that thrust Ylva's shawl off the top of her head and blew her braid over her shoulder. Golden light curled around the colossal spires of Valaskjalf and weaved throughout the city. Beyond it all, Ylva caught her first glance of the Bifrost.

A small gasp left her lips. The warriors exchanged smiles, their horses restlessly pawing at the ground. Above her head, Ylva noticed a large, dark bird soaring effortlessly among the clouds and her tight hold began to loosen.

"I've—" Ylva breathed. "I've never…"

"It won't be the last time," Thor said over his shoulder. "And you may never get used to it."

"Oh," Ylva shook her head, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth. "I hope I never do."

The deeper they brought Ylva into the wilderness of Asgard, the further she felt from every responsibility. Every eye that bore down on her every action. She felt she could breathe out here. The warmth of Asgard's sun beamed down upon her face, and bloomed from within her chest.

Surrounded by people who weren't asking her about her past, weren't pressing her about the current situation. In fact, for the first time in the last three days, Ylva felt normal.

Sif was the only one who didn't speak directly to Ylva. Her short glances burned like long, harsh glares; a lingering reminder that Ylva was still an outsider in their presence.

Thor pointed to the sky as a flock of white birds swooped down and curled around them. As the birds turned, their wings caught the light and glittered a pretty fuchsia.

"Put out your arms, Ylva!" called Fandral.

Ylva didn't give herself time to think, she just did. She stretched her arms out fully as the birds soared.

Suddenly, Ylva felt a weight on her right arm. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening. One of the birds had made her arm its perch. She saw just how big they were; resembling an eagle with the head of a dove, and as starkly white as swans. The bird's tail feathers were long and shimmered like ripples on water.

The bird didn't stay long. Ylva held as still as possible while the bird stretched its wings, its feathers brushing Ylva's neck, and gently launched itself off her arm to join the flock as they flew up and beyond the treeline.