7

Six years past and worlds away

The ash and birches of Asgard’s Glasirwood glittered in the sun’s cold light, leaves tender green and yellow against the deep green-blue of the spruce and firs that backed them. Between the trees, I caught a peek now and then of the vaulted roofs of the twin temples of Gladsheim and Vingolf. The wood ringed the city, thinning as it approached the enclosure that protected it from Asgard’s fierce weather.

The same light picked out strands of my pale gold hair as the breeze stirred it around my face. I hiked the fur-lined cloak I wore more tightly around my shoulders and glanced toward my walking companion.

Deep red highlights gleamed on Loki’s auburn curls. He carried a walking stick lightly in one hand as we strolled over the heavy turf beneath the trees. The tip of the stick grazed the ground on occasion, but mostly he swung it idly to and fro, now and then tapping it against his leg.

Loki’s face was, for the moment, turned away from me. I followed his gaze.

A low stone wall separated a mass of rounder, more emerald-leaved trees from the evergreen and birches. Globes of scarlet and golden-yellow hung from the branches. The air directly above the wall shimmered with a barely-visible trace of energy, indicating that the orchard was even more tightly enclosed than it first appeared.

In the weeks since Odin had officially “adopted” me into Asgard, Heimdal had been true to his word to Odin and begun to teach me about this world—who was kin to whom, what sort of magic each had, how the politics of the Aesir worked. Among other things, I’d discovered that Baldur and Thor wore armor all the time because they were chiefs of Odin’s warbands—a mostly-honorary title in these days, I supposed. As well as her scrying talents, Frigg was also responsible for the magic that provided Asgard’s climate-controlled enclosures.

And I’d learned that Idun and Bragi, wife and husband, were keepers of immortality and history, respectively. She alone could grow rare fruit trees which provided the Aesir with such long lives that they may as well live forever. The Alfar lived similarly long lives, although we required no special food for it.

I would live a similarly long life. I alone.

“Those are the epli?” I asked as much to make conversation and distract myself as because I needed an answer.

While Heimdal had dutifully taught what he thought I needed to know, he’d proved recalcitrant when it came to giving more than the bare bones of a story—he’d even suggested I go to Bragi to learn the answers to all the questions I asked. Bragi was, after all, the skald. It was his job to tell stories.

And Bragi told them well and beautifully. I enjoyed as much as anyone the nights in Valhalla’s dining hall when Bragi sang and played and recited epics for us. But there was value, Papa had taught and I had learned, in hearing more than one side of every story.

And, I had to confess, listening to and watching Heimdal tell a story, just for me, was a pleasure all its own. A mixed pleasure, because my undeniable attraction to Heimdal was all twisted up in the pain of the day I’d first met him and the reason for my being under his wing to begin with.

I continued to assume that Heimdal’s warmth that first day had been a passing thing. He’d kept an emotional distance ever since. He’d settled me into a cottage not far from Valhalla, made sure I had adequate clothing and knew where and when to find meals, and checked in daily with a lesson or two before vanishing again. He was, I assumed, kept busy with his duties as Asgard’s Watcher. He didn’t seem to mind our time together—but neither did he seem eager to extend them.

So it was that Loki had become the one who took me on long walks and actually showed me Asgard.

Loki was not in the least bit recalcitrant. He told me stories, too.

They didn’t always precisely match the ones Heimdal or Bragi repeated.

“Not that you or I will be getting our hands on them anytime soon.” Loki dragged his gaze from the teasing glimpses of the epli. He turned his head enough that I could see a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A sense of frustration I’d grown all too familiar with over the weeks of our friendship dripped from Loki’s words. He was, I had learned, a good faith hostage, “adopted” by Odin as part of the armistice agreement between Asgard and Jotunheim. Loki’s presence in Asgard was meant to inspire continuing peaceable behavior from the Jotun. Odin and his family were supposed to foster Loki, treat him like their own blood. As Odin had said they would treat me.

According to Loki, his actual treatment had fallen short of what was promised.

About his life before coming to Asgard, Loki was uncharacteristically tight-lipped. Heimdal had barely answered my questions about Loki, and tersely at that. Bragi’s stories never mentioned Loki at all. From what I’d gathered, Loki had been very young when he came to Asgard, little more than an infant. Maybe that accounted for Loki’s uncharacteristic reluctance to talk on that subject—maybe he just didn’t remember.

Regarding his life on Asgard, Loki had plenty to say. I was still unsure how much was truth and how much was exaggeration.

I hesitated, weighing Loki’s current mood before deciding how to reply. He’d been in good spirits all morning, up until now. I decided a little honesty wouldn’t hurt him.

I shrugged and worked my words into careful neutrality. The trick was to never sound like you were choosing sides. “I can understand how you might feel that way. But no one else is allowed to touch them, either. Not even the other Aesir. Not without Idun’s permission.”

Loki turned his face even more fully toward me. His eyes narrowed, and his brows drew down as his frown deepened.

Beneath the brewing storm cloud of Loki’s expression lurked the eyes of a bewildered and lonely child. I could only imagine how he’d felt, dropped into a world of strangers as a mere babe. Did he remember his real parents at all? I couldn’t imagine any Aesir woman treating him with a mother’s kindness or love. Certainly none of them did now.

I consciously gentled my tone even further. “Not everything is about us being different and somehow slighted, you know. Some of their rules make sense.”

Loki’s jaw tightened. I stifled a sigh—sometimes keeping up with Loki’s emotional storms was exhausting—and allowed my smile to soften with affection for the man walking alongside me. That affection was genuine. When Loki was in good spirits, he was both charming and amusing. And he’d been nothing but kind to me—whereas many of Asgard’s other residents had simply ignored me.

“Do you really want to be like them, anyow?” I paused to make a scoffing sound. “Too tall and too blonde and far too pink of face?”

Loki’s answering huff was barely recognizable as a laugh. But his frown eased.

“Being blonde doesn’t do you any harm.” Loki’s mouth, frowning less than a heartbeat ago, curled into a sly grin.

I slapped playfully at his shoulder. “That’s as good as you can do? What a charmer you are.”

All signs of Loki’s momentarily foul mood fled. He grinned openly and chuckled.

Relieved that the sun had returned to his face, I smiled. After a second, I added, carefully, “I do understand how you feel. Being the odd ones out. But we can be odd together.”

Loki chuckled again. “Careful, little rainbow. Sincerity and friendship shouldn’t be given lightly. Especially not when you’re offering them to a Jotun. I am, by my nature, a very bad man.”

It was my turn to frown. “You’re not so bad.” I clung to levity in an attempt to keep the storm clouds from returning to Loki’s face.

“Mmm hmm. You haven’t been listening to your guardian then, I take it.” Loki’s smile faded, but neither did his previous scowl return. The set of his mouth and eyes held one of those glimpses of sadness that always urged me to reassure him.

“Heimdal has not spoken an ill word about you.” Which was the truth. Heimdal frowned anytime he saw me with Loki. He had no qualms about pointing out the treacherous nature of the Jotun in general. But he hadn’t technically said anything directly negative about Loki. If anything, he mentioned Loki as infrequently as possible.

Other gods had certainly filled my ears with tales of Loki’s alleged wrong-doings. Thor’s wife Sif sometimes lowered herself to spend time with me—usually when Thor was away. She wasn’t my favorite person. Although all the Aesir were blonde, Sif’s hair was the gold by which all other standards were set. Long and wavy, it always seemed a bit too perfectly done, as did her meticulous clothing. Even her mannerisms seemed too precise.

But she was Thor’s wife, and I felt bad about that. So when Sif came to talk, I did my best to listen. To my further annoyance, Sif took great delight in looking down her nose at me as she explained how awful Loki was. According to her, Loki had only a few months ago single-handedly caused the breakdown of a trade deal between Asgard and Jotunheim, one that had nearly led to renewed hostilities between the worlds. But he’d been bad forever, Sif claimed. Even as a boy, he’d trained a dog to such viciousness that it had attacked Tyr, Odin’s old father.

Loki had been raised as one of them, Sif had sniffed, alike in every way except blood. Odin had treated Loki like a true son, only for Loki to show nothing but ingratitude and contempt.

The Loki of the present strolled alongside me with the sun striking ruby highlights in his dark curls. He shrugged, one-shouldered, in response to my assertion that Heimdal never spoke ill of him. “Give him time.”

We walked without speaking for a few moments, the only sound that of Loki’s walking stick twitching restlessly against his leg.

From Loki, I had heard how as boys, Thor blatantly and Baldur more slyly had persecuted Loki from the time he’d learned to walk and talk. They mocked his darker complexion and more slender build and ridiculed his fine-fingered talent with the magical webs Frigg used to hold Asgard’s enclosures in place—a skill which Loki used to help Frigg maintain those enclosures, to the benefit of the louts torturing him for being able to do so.

And the dog? In his childhood loneliness, Loki had befriended a puppy. But Thor had gone so far as to include the pup in his contempt-filled cruelty, until Loki had abandoned the dog in hopes that Thor would leave it alone. By then, of course, it had been too late. The dog’s temper had already been ruined.

As for the trade deal Sif had spoken of, it had broken down when Loki had revealed an attempted deception on Jotunheim’s side of the dealings. Asgard had, in the end, benefited from the deal’s failure. And, Loki had added when he told me about it, there’d been a Jotun plot to take Idun hostage—one that he had helped her avoid.

“But no one ever mentions that,” Loki had murmured. “No one ever mentions those things.”

I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Loki’s version of events were entirely accurate. But I remained unconvinced that every ill thing that had ever happened in Asgard could be laid at Loki’s feet. And many more could rightly be placed on the shoulders of these so-called gods themselves—the ones who’d promised to raise Loki as family.

None of those wrongs could be righted overnight. Maybe they couldn’t be righted at all. Possibly the urge I felt to try anyhow stemmed from my upbringing as an Alfar.

For the moment, though, I cut in before Loki could get worked up again. “Speaking of Heimdal, however… I need to get back. I’m to meet him at Valhalla.”

I slowed to a stop, waiting for Loki so we could turn and follow the path through the woods, back the way we’d come.

Loki took another three steps before turning to face me. “I wonder what rare insights the Watcher has in store for you today?” Loki’s eyes widened in mock excitement. “Sif’s treatise on developing a warm and winning personality? Thor’s recommendations on anger management? Or perhaps Heimdal himself will offer up some lessons in humor.” Loki dropped the wide-eyed act and sneered. “Or, alternatively, in how to get a big stick up your ass.”

I noticed, idly, that Loki did not include Baldur in his jests. Despite his assertion that Baldur was every bit as cruel at Thor, Loki did not mention Baldur much at all.

“Heimdal’s not so bad.” I spoke the words more sharply than I’d intended.

In truth, I liked Heimdal a great deal. A great deal indeed. Not that Heimdal had noticed. Or rather, he surely had—those elevated senses of his—but he chose to ignore it. It wasn’t as if I were the only woman who reacted to him like that, after all. He’d probably had to learn to ignore his ability to notice of a lot of things.

Or maybe I’d gotten better at controlling my emotional responses, not only to Heimdal but in general. I had, after all, been raised on a world of kindness and light. I now lived in a world of people with stone and ice in their souls. Some adjustments had been necessary.

Loki did not need to know that. Certainly not the parts about Heimdal.

“He doesn’t take his duties lightly,” I added, softening the edges this time in an attempt to sound less like it mattered to me that Heimdal personally was being disparaged.

Whatever playfulness had lurked beneath Loki’s jabs at Heimdal seeped away. Loki’s frown didn’t turn as deep as it had been previously, but it was still a frown. He grumbled, “You’re not one of them. You should try acting less like you are.”

His words should probably have angered me. Or hurt. Instead, I simply felt weary. Convinced as I was that Loki was not an utterly bad person, his friendship was sometimes exhausting.

I shrugged and murmured, “Heimdal is a bit grim, I suppose.”

The concession left a bad taste in my mouth. I shifted my gaze to the trees, golden fruit hanging tantalizingly just out of reach.

Heimdal was quite a somber man. I would know. I’d spent enough time darting furtive glances at the clean line of his jaw, the broad stretch of his shoulders, and… a lot of other things I probably shouldn’t be wasting time on admiring.

“They’re not the greatest apples anyhow.” Loki sounded apologetic—not uncommon after one of his moody outbursts.

I shifted my gaze from the fruit trees to Loki’s face. A smile that matched the apology in his voice crooked across his mouth. It wasn’t difficult to return that smile.

By way of accepting his apology, I replied, “But they do look good.”

My reward was a full-force return of Loki’s most charming smile. His eyes lit with good humor. He glanced toward the epli, and his eyes narrowed.

“Good, yes.” He leaned his head toward mine and lowered his voice. “But I know where to find real apples. They may not make you live forever, but they taste better.”

“Of course you do.” I crossed my arms and tipped my head.

“Twice the size of Idun’s best, and a rosy gold that puts the sunrise to shame. And the flavor—your tongue will die a little from the pleasure.”

I snorted. “Are we still talking about apples?”

Loki laughed, delight dancing across his fox-like features. “You don’t believe me?”

I sighed, both resigned to and relieved by Loki’s returning good humor. “I know better than that by now. Where are these amazing apples?”

“On Midgard. Not far from one of the bridge stones.” His smile edged toward sly. He lowered his voice and leaned even closer. A puff of his breath touched my cheek. “Take me there. I’ll get you some.”

A split second of dizziness caught me unaware. An odd scent I could classify only as dark tainted the crisp air. Distracted from Loki’s question for a moment, I glanced around.

I could see no source for the strange scent. Before I even finished thinking that, it faded. My dizziness cleared.

When I looked back at Loki, his eyes were wide and his eyebrows raised. His mouth had rounded.

Waiting for me to answer him, I realized.

I hesitated. Odin had suggested—strongly—that I should not open the ways between worlds save for Asgardian business for which he’d offered his approval. And while I harbored my personal opinions about Loki’s innocence of any truly devious intentions, I could estimate pretty easily what every other resident of Asgard would think of me taking Loki anywhere without the permission or even knowledge of anyone else.

Then I recalled Papa, brow furrowed as he reprimanded Willow for an offhand remark Willow had made regarding Odin ruling all the Nine Worlds.

“Odin may negotiate terms with Alfheim’s council,” Papa had stated. “But as a whole, Alfheim’s directive is to serve, not only with compassion but with fairness. Odin may make whatever requests he likes, and we will certainly consider them. But they will not dictate our actions.”

However adopted I may be by the Aesir, I was and would always be Alfar. Could I simply forget everything Papa had ever taught me?

Loki’s expression settled into a renewed attempt at persuasive charm. He lowered his head and peered at me through dark lashes. “Come on. They’re just apples. It will take only a few minutes.”

I sighed, ending it with a defeated laugh. “I suppose I have time before I go to meet Heimdal.”