All Loki has ever known of his mother is that embrace limitless and omnipresent as water; clean water from the chilliest spring, meant to threaten Loki’s enemies with silky sweetness; or warm sudsy bathwater, meant to wash away the filth and the wounds of living; or driving rain, or the exhilarating rebirth of rising mists. Loki is as water, because Frigga is as water.
And memories of hiding in a warm blond plait, listening to a chorus of song from a single mouth, or kisses on the brow or the cheek when still encased in the warm cocoon of slumber, are still as fresh today as when Loki was a wild changeling.
“Well, I think I have finally mastered a way for us to appear to shift form, yet it is only an illusion, as ever when we cast illusisons, but this time, the illusions remain ostensibly solid.”
He lopes toward her, with a cautious gait that speaks in no way of mistrust toward his mother, but rather, toward existing. Such is the natural side effect of being penalized all one’s life, for living.
Snowy hands reach forward, conjuring a live mouse, and its double, and Loki dangles each carefully, gently, by the tail.
“They even respond to physical stimuli such as an embrace or a weapon wound. Fairly soon, I believe I shall be able to manufacture appropriate viscera, such as blood, when the illusion calls for such a response to external stimuli. Here, feel. I doubt you can tell the difference between the real rodent that I have summoned from another place, and the one that I have conjured from thin air.”
She watches carefully, eyes gleaming with pride when he finally shows what he has done. Though, if he does not treat them with respect and compassion, she will have to teach him a lesson.
Frigga’s brows arch delicately, though she is sure that her pride is visible in her aura. “I am impressed, my cunning magpie,” she reaches forward and holds out both hands to accept the mice, only the barest hint of subtle undercurrent emanating from the duplicate. “You are progressing far faster than I had planned. You may soon even outmatch me.”
Had Frigga offered Loki a chest full of all the jewels of the Nine, he wouldn’t be happier than he is now. Her child laps up her words of praise like a parched soul in a desert; he rises up on his tip toes, and rocks back all but giddily onto the balls of his feet. He steps over to the Allmother with a rare, broad, toothed grin, and gently grasps her shoulders.
“Móðir mín, tis only with your constant tutelage that it is even possible. I could never outmatch the queen who raised me.”
He senses her inclination towards gentleness. This, too, is her legacy upon her otherwise sharp-edged son. He conjures crumbs of fig scones into a palm and offers them to both mice.
How could he not? Is he not himself the imposter, as Thor is the genuine article?
–not because she frightens him, how could she, when her thick plait of hair is strawberries and clean sunshine, when her arms are safety, when her hands no matter the cleanliness bear the slight stains of various dyes and potions and worlds opened unto him when everyone he knew was fair and robust and gregarious and out of his reach, worlds that became his own, a merry mischief that begat his own, Norn stones and chants and the ancient magpie’s cry that is now his own, no–
because he reveres her time alone to forecast the future and to meditate. Because he reveres her.
“If it is an inconvenient time, I can return later, mama,” he assures her, with a warmth spared only for the august queen before him. “The matter is not pressing, only a new spell I have developed, that I believe you would enjoy.”
The wolf approaches the grains that feed its kills, fondly.
The soft crackling of the fireplace and the ambient bubbling of the cauldron are all that break the silence as warm eyes gaze into the turbulent depths of her youngest’s face.
[ a fleeting memory, but cherished. hefty rolls of thunder and driving rain and a warm body in her lap, curled against her chest, her hair hiding him nearly from view. the fire crackled peacefully as she chanted a calming spell, her clear tones ringing around the stone in an ethereal chorus seemingly multiplied despite the single voice.
another memory. jet hair splayed across the paleness of a pillow, a young face far too careworn even in sleep. this time, as her hand brushed against his forehead, settling a lock of hair, the ivory skin briefly flashed cerulean, her own magick dispelling his illusion. taunting her. this is not your child. not the fruit of your loins. a peace-child, a mere cuckoo’s egg, and yet you raise it as your own. you would bleed for him. die for him, exchange the very essence of your being to give this child life. the queen did not return from the depths of her chambers for three days after that. when she did, her animosity towards the Alfodir was tangible.
BY THE NORNS THEMSELVES, if Odin thought for one MOMENTshe was going to treat this child any different than the fruit of their union…
WOE BETIDE HIM. ]
“MAGPIE MINN,”
something seems to shake the Almodir from a stupor, drawing up to her utmost height, an aura of power glimmering faintly around her, a life-giving-wheat-gold as she smiles softly.
“You are never an interruption.”
–had she not always kept this philosophy with this child so desperate for love, for a family… for a mother? had she not always no matter what the circumstances, made it utterly clear that this fragile one, this soul so desperately in need of nurture was welcome in her chambers, her study, her HEART?
the soft murmur falls from her lips as she extends a dry-ink-blotted hand towards him.
“Come, show me what your mind-thoughts have borne.”
All Loki has ever known of his mother is that embrace limitless and omnipresent as water; clean water from the chilliest spring, meant to threaten Loki’s enemies with silky sweetness; or warm sudsy bathwater, meant to wash away the filth and the wounds of living; or driving rain, or the exhilarating rebirth of rising mists. Loki is as water, because Frigga is as water.
And memories of hiding in a warm blond plait, listening to a chorus of song from a single mouth, or kisses on the brow or the cheek when still encased in the warm cocoon of slumber, are still as fresh today as when Loki was a wild changeling.
“Well, I think I have finally mastered a way for us to appear to shift form, yet it is only an illusion, as ever when we cast illusisons, but this time, the illusions remain ostensibly solid.”
He lopes toward her, with a cautious gait that speaks in no way of mistrust toward his mother, but rather, toward existing. Such is the natural side effect of being penalized all one’s life, for living.
Snowy hands reach forward, conjuring a live mouse, and its double, and Loki dangles each carefully, gently, by the tail.
“They even respond to physical stimuli such as an embrace or a weapon wound. Fairly soon, I believe I shall be able to manufacture appropriate viscera, such as blood, when the illusion calls for such a response to external stimuli. Here, feel. I doubt you can tell the difference between the real rodent that I have summoned from another place, and the one that I have conjured from thin air.”
She did not have to turn to know which of her children
–she would never abandon him as his kindred had, not when the memory of a mewling blue babe far too weak to survive in his icy climate, yet soft against her breast as she held him close, urged him to take the nutrients needed for LIFE, never would she abandon that child–
was approaching her.
The Allmodir turned softly, hair falling down over her shoulder in waves not unlike the life-giving grain she blessed with good growth each season. Her eyes were intelligent yet soft around the edges as she smiled softly, a warm life-rich gesture that spoke to just why she was the watcher of families and fertility. She was softness and provision cloaked with warmth, with an underlying hint of something just sharp enough to strike fear in the back of her foes’ minds.
“Something I can do for you, my SON?”
Loki balks before his mother
–not because she frightens him, how could she, when her thick plait of hair is strawberries and clean sunshine, when her arms are safety, when her hands no matter the cleanliness bear the slight stains of various dyes and potions and worlds opened unto him when everyone he knew was fair and robust and gregarious and out of his reach, worlds that became his own, a merry mischief that begat his own, Norn stones and chants and the ancient magpie’s cry that is now his own, no–
because he reveres her time alone to forecast the future and to meditate. Because he reveres her.
“If it is an inconvenient time, I can return later, mama,” he assures her, with a warmth spared only for the august queen before him. “The matter is not pressing, only a new spell I have developed, that I believe you would enjoy.”
The wolf approaches the grains that feed its kills, fondly.
I feel terribly for Frigga here. She can’t cross her husband, around whom she has to pussyfoot with illusion magic in order to visit her own child. And her other child makes her visibly nervous, jumping, turning, making placating gestures and smiles, saying placating words, having to endure damning and dismissive things from one person she loves, about another person she loves, and not rise to the bait once.
Frigga underwent pretty constant pressure at home, and I don’t think people often acknowledge this, because of how limited her screen time was. And no, I don’t condone the things she said to Loki in his cell that attempted to force his forgiveness of Odin, but I also can see the place from which she, as a mother, speaks.
“I somehow knew that even this year, you would not forget this day.”
Though Loki, cool and reserved, is not wont to demonstrate tenderer emotions, his lean grin is unbarbed, declawed, gentle.
He takes the cup of deepest red wine from his brother and toasts it with a resounding clink of metal.
“I have not always been able to protect them, and for that I remain saddened, and yet.”
He ducks his head, and exhales in softest mirth.
“I can but hope that our mother would be proud of me. Isn’t it a strange irony, that our father would be the one to summon thoughts of that pride, with his dying words.”
icyxmischief 