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It wasn’t that Thor wasn’t a nice man. But he deserved someone as good as him, a woman with a nurturing spirit and doting tendencies—and that wasn’t you. That’s not to say that you were wicked, it was simply to say that you were further from perfect than most Asgardians. And you’d long ago made your peace with that.
Tonight was another Asgardian tribute to—alright, maybe wealth was a poor choice of word, say good fortune. A party of thunderous noise charged with electric delight in classic Odinson fashion raged. The occasion this time could not have been victory over a hostile force or the coming around of a beloved traditional holiday, the proportions were too epic—it only made sense for it to be Thor’s birthday.
Lady Frigga and The Father, with mirth in their eyes, had retired early, and then the real party had begun. Lady Sif and the Warriors Three were shantying up a storm while the band played so loudly that you’d have guessed they could hear it all the way out in the other Realms. Dancers were rowdy, charged with wine and ale, their clapping and footwork adding to the volume. Sitting where you did atop your velvet perch, at a carved aspen table on one of the balconies where you could watch the bustle from aloft, you were almost tempted to join in—but you’d rather be spared the headache.
Thor caught your eye, and waved at you. You waved back. A few minutes later, he asked someone—a beautiful someone—to dance. The music slowed and quieted to something a bit more sensual and the massive horde of jubileers paired off. You smiled, and took a sip of your wine.
“I thought the cacophony would never die down,” said a voice mildly from behind you. A moment ago, this man would have had to shout to be heard.
“Thor does know how to throw a party,” you answered.
“That he does. Do you mind if I sit?”
“Go right ahead.” The seat was empty enough. Leather protested in classic Asgardian garb fashion as the man took the chair beside yours.
You recognized Thor’s partner, you thought. You didn’t recall her name, but you’d had a few passing encounters. She was elegant, charming, thoughtful. Much like Lady Frigga. Perfect for him.
“Lots of eligible bachelorettes this night,” remarked the man. “I should hope he doesn’t rush into anything.” You frowned. This had moved beyond banter and was edging dangerously into the territory of gossip. You turned to appraise the man who’d invited himself to sit at your table—and your breath caught.
“If it were me, I’d wait until after I’d taken the Throne. Give myself time to become better acquainted with the demands of leadership, so I could better decide who might be up to the task of sharing the burden with me.”
Given that Loki wasn’t one for public appearances, you’d never properly heard him speak, and so you supposed you couldn’t be too hard on yourself for not immediately recognizing his voice. But what had a moment ago sounded bored, unimpressed, now sounded scornful and bitter in its proper context, and you knew you’d never in the future fail to recognize the man behind that voice.
Most everyone knew Thor would be the one made king. It was an open secret. You had no way of knowing whether or not Loki had accepted this inevitable truth. Given what you’d heard about him, you were tempted to throw it in his face now, regardless. But you found yourself instead just studying him silently, trying to get a read on him. What on earth was Loki, son of Odin, doing talking to you?
“Is it that you’ve never been one for dancing, or is it that he turned you off the sport entirely?” You stared at him.
Asgardians were known for spreading tales. Heartbreaker of Thor? It had a certain ring to it, you supposed.
“Dancing,” you said, minding your wine.
“Damn.” You side-eyed him. He smiled, taking a sip of the drink he’d brought with him—a chalice, so wine as well.
So was that his game, his scheme? To woo you? And why, to make his brother jealous?
That would almost be adorable, if it weren’t so pathetic.
“Are you Valkyrie?” You laughed at the notion—and recovered quickly, lest he think you were actually enjoying any part of this interaction.
“I should say not.”
“Didn’t make the cut?” You glanced at him. You honestly couldn’t tell if he was trying to goad you or not.
“Didn’t bother trying out.” He nodded almost sagely.
“If it’s any consolation, the armor’d’ve suited you quite well.” You squinted at him.
“If it’s any consolation, you’d look very regal on a throne.” His smile vanished like you’d cast a spell. You kept your gaze fixed hard on him as he glared at you—you wanted to bear witness to the victory of his storming away.
“I should say you would as well,” he finally said, steepling his fingers in irritated contemplation and slumping forward to watch the dancers. “And yet you threw away every opportunity for such a future that my brother afforded you.”
That had been a low blow, what you’d said, so you could forgive him now for lashing out like a wounded animal.
“Whoever sits on the throne should be capable of its demands,” you told him sincerely.
“You think so lowly of yourself?” he said, more honest wonder behind the question than disdain, you thought.
“No,” you said simply. “I just know myself.”
“How noble,” he scoffed. Surprisingly, you found yourself unoffended. Perhaps it had something to do with the unmistakable impression that you had the upper hand. You downed the rest of your wine, and turned to face him proper.
“Why are we talking, Brother of Thor?” you said, crossing your legs, resting your elbow on the table, and your chin in that hand. “Did you wish to bed me?”
He seemed only for a moment scandalized by the suggestion, then gave up what was either genuine perturbation or the ruse, downing the rest of his wine and turning to mirror your stance.
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Well, I applaud your subtlety.” He looked almost amused by that comment. Truthfully, he wasn’t so bad-looking, now you got a closer look at him. It was easy to see how most of the eligible maidens would prefer Thor, with his conventional features and his long, luscious blonde locks—but there was a roguishness in Loki’s features that you thought more than a mother could love, if given time.
You reflected for a moment on how he apparently saw you.
“You seek to possess the one thing your brother was never able to attain.”
His amusement faltered, his eyelids fluttering at your apparent heart-of-the-beast accuracy.
“Something like that,” he eventually grumbled. “But look at him. Waving to get your attention, then flaunting around his pick of the litter.” Loki looked. “No subtlety there. It’s an exceedingly childish gesture coming from someone who’s set to take the Throne. And that’s to say nothing of the fact that it obviously wouldn’t be enough to change your mind. How could he think it would be, after all these years of your refusal?” You felt an unexpected pang of pity for Thor’s—yes, pathetic—raven-haired brother, who was apparently at least not in total denial of Thor’s position.
“And that’s to say nothing of how cruel it would be to use the maiden in such a way, as nothing more than a tool for the purpose of provoking another woman. But Thor’s not that kind of person.” Loki glanced at you, brow furrowed.
“Look again, Loki,” you encouraged him. “He’s moved on. Look how he carries himself.”
Loki appeared unsure, but did look again. You joined him in studying them for a while as they danced, looking picture perfect, Thor giving himself wholeheartedly to the endeavor, not appearing at all distracted.
“It’s hard to see anything from this distance,” Loki contended.
“And so you make wild assumptions.” He sighed.
“I suppose you would know better than I whether he’s matured…in this,” he conceded. You saw in your peripheral his head turn in your direction, and you met his eyes.
On an impulse, you grabbed for the bottle of wine resting off to your right and filled your chalice. You topped off his. You raised yours.
“To maturity.” He made a face, but seemed to realize after a moment what a refusal to toast would heavily imply. Metal met metal.
“In due time.” Hey—you’d drink to that.
For a while after that, you both simply sat there, silently people watching. Your gaze traveled from couple to couple—Thor and his lady; Brunnhilde and her lady; The Warriors Three, now on the floor, and theirs; Lady Sif and her beau.
“You know…and perhaps this is the wine talking, but…I did quite enjoy it when you said my name before.” Maybe it was the wine working, but it took a while for Loki’s comment to fully register. You looked at him vaguely. “That’s the first I’ve heard you say it,” he added.
“That makes sense,” you responded, “considering it’s the first we’ve ever spoken.”
“Fair point,” he said. “My point being, I wouldn’t mind hearing you say it again.” He smiled boyishly, his eyes glittering like frozen fire in the light. You tutted.
“Loki, Loki, Loki.” He waited. You downed the rest of this cupful, and rose from the table. “There, that’s three for the price of one. That should tide you over.”
“Tide me over?” he said, standing.
“Until Thor’s next birthday,” you said. “When you may try your luck again, if you still feel so inclined.” You touched his shoulder, and he followed the movement, looking dazed. You breezed past him.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again before then,” he called after you. You turned. He looked rather regal in his green cape getup, if not regal enough for the throne.
“Perhaps. There’s a lot to celebrate in these times of relative peace.” You waved. “Fare thee well, Brother of Thor.”
“And goodnight, One Who Got Away.” He bowed slightly.
You smiled, and curtsied, feeling a bit charmed. But then, that was probably just the wine.
Snuggling into the warmth of your rabbit throw that night, you wondered if Loki was a decent dancer.