~PROLOGUE~

Asgard, the realm eternal, first home of the gods, stands at the heart of the nine realms,
in the world tree of our known galaxy. Two moons hover in our night sky, and our seasons are five human decades long.

King Odin Allfather rules alongside his queen, with whom I am infinitely familiar. These strangely beloved monarchs have two sons, with whom you are also quite familiar. Now say the sons' names with me—

"Prince Thor and Prince Loki."

The former, and older of the two, had amassed a "Golden Son" title in a century long since passed,
barely three months beyond his first breaking of fast!
Granted with mighty powers in sun-drenched hours, the child bathed in gifts bestowed upon kings: 
A halo crown and cloak for wings.
Soaking in the summer of breezy wins, this boy, beloved by far more than his nearest of kin,
learned nothing of merit from his quickly forgiven sins.

Now flip the coin to the other one, the younger son.

Unsurprising to his mother, he followed a different path—
A path where he would not be outshone by his golden brother.
Under the shadows of ten thousand ashes, far from the unforgiving sun,
he escaped the stifling noble smother, deceived the watchful raven's hover.
Such a dark path, a whispering path, a path quite fitting for a mischief-lover.

I know not the exact day, certainly not the exact hour, of his decision to flee,
but rather than fight a centuries-long battle to win the hearts of the masses,
who in all their fickle foolery, had long ago allowed gold, not green, to become their queen,
this younger prince bade good riddance to their fair-weather cruelty.

With his back to the wind, he flew—some might say "fell"—over the edge.
‘Twas out there, on the dark sides of our moons, on the blackest and coldest of nights,
that he landed his flight.
It was then that the "Dark Son" moniker was bestowed upon him by high-browed fools
who believed the title was an ingenious slight.
Fools, indeed, for only fools believe that darkness is never right.

Open your eyes, children; you'll see that your fairytales are a wicked distortion.
Devoid of gradation and reason, they blind you to the evils committed by "good" men,
and to the good deeds of "evil" men.

Real tales do not dogmatize two polar opposite monarchs, only dark or only golden.
They do not brush the lush blank linen with broad, sweeping strokes, only in white or obsidian.
'Tis not "either you did OR you did NOT commit treason!"
People are not only good or only evil, only angel or demon.

This you will learn, that Death does not behave as it does in fiction. Our beloved are not sent, with clear division, to either the glorious fields of Elysium, or to their eternal Helheim damnation.

No, the sharp-minded take a much more nuanced position— "The line that separates love from hate is usually too bloody thin to discern the so-called hero from the villain."

Health turns to pain with no care for justice or station,
swaying any heart toward the disillusioned mission.

Do not be swayed like them, dear young ones. Do not be useful idiots who believe folly told to children by the stubborn generation who bore them, and even more stubborn the generation before, stretching backward through time ad infinitum.

Since I do not lie as they do (for reasons I’ll not yet delve into), you may believe me when I tell you 
that we live not in black and white, but in the endlessly shifting storm cloud grey between.
Somewhere inside tints of nearly white warm gold and black-shadowed cold, here our days unfold.

Oh, do not be so disheartened by my words!—Storm clouds roll out as surely as they roll in,
killing the envied gold spreading like a virus within.

"But why say you that gold is a virus that must be killed? 'Tis a precious metal that we trade at the market to keep our bellies filled!"

No no no no, how can you not see? This is not how it must be! Behold our dwindling fields before you next bend the knee!

Do you see it now?—Lake-cloaking piers join the heaven-seeking tiers,
enshrouding our home in suffocating foam,
and in an undefined span of time, push us toward a netherworld catacomb.
Indeed, soon it became known.
The toiling, living dead, awakened by the blinding light,
shielded their dilated eyes, finally seeing the lies.

It was there that gold lost its worth; thus, lost its power. For who should desire something, once shining and rare, that is now repetitious and duller than apron strings?
What is to be sought after now, if not our once-gleaming things, fought for by envious order of ivory tower queens and kings, in conquered lands and working hands stripped of fine rings?

“Care not for the GREEN beneath your feet,” the noble masters lied, “for it breaks backs, bloodies hands,
and bruises knees, yet bears little fruit; that which it fares, be tasteless and stale.”

“But green is for LIFE,” many poor souls objected, certain to fail.

Incredulous, the new masters did so loudly wail, "Twenty lashings for speaking beyond the pale!”

Norns, how these lovers of green were mocked! Down from their strong, ashen branches, they were knocked. Bound at the wrists,  they were thrown in cells, their doors locked. They were forced from the forest court, yet no onlooker’s boat was rocked?—My oh my, color me shocked.

“Your precious green will bring only death,” the masters lied again, swearing on their lives that the enemy was the DARK root within. “No evil shadow shall remain in this, our GOLDEN heaven!”

Nay, this, our golden cage—our cosmopolitan prison.

But after nine centuries of waste and cowardly delay, courage grew among these caged birds of prey, and off they bravely flew as lovers of green into the fray.
Not lords or ladies with weapons of untold decay, but only the dark night should conquer the oppressive gold-driven day.

Hands aching, hearts breaking, we lived our frivolous lives in the dog days of never-ending summers.
In the stifling heat of our meaningless finery, brought to us by our philanthropic plunderers,
we begged for icy winter to sweep across our lands, and gun down the grim-reaping gunners.

-"The Nine Hundred Year Confession of a Once-Famed, Now-Shamed Æsir Royal" by Frigga, The Queen Mother of Asgard

FRIGID IMMORTALS

~The Palace of Asgard~

Thor spotted his younger sibling in the queen’s garden, manhandling a golden-haired girl, perhaps a few years his junior.

Leaning over the ledge of the balcony, he called out to him.

“Brother!”

He’d been mindlessly roaming the aged bronze halls of the palace, reduced to boredom, whilst his warrior friends sparred down at the training arena without him. His reputation for usurping a fight, for brandishing his famed hammer, a weapon called Mjolnir, and leaving no room for the other soldiers to partake in the battle as he slayed the enemy, had him suspended from training for a week. His close friend and sister in arms, Sif, had warned him of his arrogance and how it would gain him such a suspension. 

Yet he had not heeded her words and found himself spending much of his time searching out his brother who trained more with hefty books than with metal weaponry. The younger of the two was known for his mischievous ways and the trickery amused Thor to no end, despite his claiming to be above it. Watching his brother pull pranks was the best medicine for a week of drollery without practiced battles.

He pulled his blood red cloak tighter around his broad intimidating frame as a cold wind shot through the pillared hall. His long thick blond waves whipped around his bearded face, piercing aqua eyes shutting hastily to avoid the burning sensation from the frozen gust. The torches were nearly snuffed out from the effect, and he rubbed his hands together and blew his hot breath into them.

He favored his royal blue and silver breastplate and heavy armor over the crimson tunic, navy leather jacket, breeches, and black boots that he was currently sporting, but the armor was rather pointless if he wasn’t joining the others in their fake fight. He scowled at the thought of surviving a week doing anything other than spending the daylight hours slamming fists and showing the Asgardian army just how mighty he truly was.

The sound of girlish giggling and squeals of delight from the icy garden a story below the open balcony had caught his attention and curiosity took over. He stepped as gingerly as was possible to the ledge and peered over. Refusing to admit that he was a touch jealous, Thor frowned at the sight of his brother wrapped up in the arms of an attractive young woman, hands roaming underneath her thick yellow cloak while she pulled at his fur covered shoulders and straight raven locks.

The second prince of Asgard was not as tall as Thor, but his six-foot two body still towered over many of the citizens. His frame was athletic but thinner than that of his older brother. He was acclaimed as a master sorcerer, and his intellect was far beyond that of their peers. Like Thor, he was also a fully capable fighter, able to hold his own in any battle, and both brothers had already seen their fair share of fights, often with each other, as is typical with siblings.

However, rather than throwing himself into the middle of the fight and swinging punches and risking deadly blows to himself, the second son preferred his throwing knives or a small silver dagger. His aim was impeccable, every shot landing with precision. He moved with grace, twisting and contorting his body with the physical prowess of a cat, rather than roaring and stomping and head-butting as a bear would.

His magic had proven useful many times, casting illusions of himself and confusing his adversaries. He was lithe and intimidating, but it was never enough to best Thor. The golden prince was the warrior. The dark prince was the trickster. The warrior would always win, in the end, and the darker son was supremely envious for it.

“Brother!” Thor called again and was ignored again.

At the sound of Thor’s booming voice, the girl finally made to pull away from his brother, but he pulled her back against his tall frame, shrouding her in his black leather and fur shouldered coat.

Thor rolled his eyes. “Loki! Have you gone deaf?”

Loki released the girl, and with a wink and charming smile, he kissed her hand and waved her off. Shooting a glare at Thor, the girl sauntered away, and Loki tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, hair ruffling with the icy breeze, as he watched her before spinning on his heel to face Thor, a smirk spreading across his face.

His skin was fair, pale even, and it was made more so by the contrast to his black nearly shoulder-length hair and emerald green eyes framed by long dark lashes. He was certainly attractive—all symmetrical high, sharp cheekbones and angular jaw connecting to a long gracefully veined throat.

“My apologies. I could not hear you over the sound of that lovely young thing’s pounding heart and utterly devastating moans of pleasure,” he deadpanned.

Thor laughed. “Is that so? She was so much louder in my chambers last night!”

Loki rolled his eyes. He knew it was meant as a jest, but it irritated him, nonetheless. He wanted to shout that the girl had been busy removing his breeches in his chambers the night before but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. The girl was of no great import. Just another bedmate, one of many in a long line for hundreds of years. Another attractive face to satiate one of the more carnal desires of his body. Something to pass the time, really.

Eyes narrowing, he raised a dark eyebrow. “Just how much ale did you drink last night? You must be confusing her with one of those over-stuffed whores you love so much.”

Hearing Thor’s heavy footsteps backing away from the ledge, he turned to look at the bifrost which still shimmered as a prism despite the low frozen grey clouds. The cold felt natural to Loki, and he closed his eyes as an icy gust tossed his hair about his neck. Since he could remember, Asgard’s constant warmth seemed to suffocate him. It never seemed to bother anyone else.

The bright gleaming golden city was usually blooming with flowers and exotic plant life because of the pleasant weather. A warm breeze would float through the air, and despite the heavy leather attire and long dresses which seemed to cause a sheen of sweat on most everyone, they seemed content with the heat. It confounded him. Footsteps behind him took him from his musings.

Thor softened his tone. “I didn’t mean to speak ill of her truly, Loki. I only jest, brother.”

Loki continued to stare at the cosmos. “Yes, I’m well aware of your comedic prowess.”

Bitter envy aside, he loved his brother. Love and hate were two sides of the same coin, after all. Sighing heavily, he slumped his shoulders.

Scratching his chin, Loki muttered, “Doesn’t matter anyhow. I already forgot her name.”

Thor clapped his hand on his baby brother’s shoulder. “Cease your brooding, Loki. I am painfully bored. Is it not your greatest desire to entertain me in my doldrums?”

His words pulled a low chuckle from Loki. “Thor, as much as your painful boredom injures me to the very core, I’m afraid I have been called to the training ground this evening. It seems that Father wants to spare you from my corruption—His words, not mine. Do accept my most sincere apologies.”

He gave a small bow, and backing away with a frown and clasped hands, he left Thor standing in the frosty garden. Thor watched him walk away until he could no longer see him, then turned with heavy steps back into the warmth of the palace.

---

Loki strolled to his chambers to change into his armor. He didn’t care to train with Thor’s friends. Stunningly beautiful Sif had been given the title “Goddess of War” by the Allfather a century prior and had become, despite said beauty, ruthlessly obnoxious with arrogance since. Her double-bladed sword was impressive and intimidating to the other soldiers. All Loki saw when he watched her fight was the female version of his big brother—beautiful, favored, and loved by all.

Their skills were limited to fighting and binge drinking and slurring poorly thought-out insults during both. Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral were Thor’s other friends who had arrogantly named themselves the “Warriors Three”. As though there were only three great warriors in all of Asgard.

Preposterous.

Famous for their many victories in battle, they, along with Sif, created a bloodthirsty and intellectually stunted foursome. They were skilled Warriors, thus their name, but they seemed to think that each argument could and should only be won by who had the bigger weapon. Everything was a pissing contest to them. Loki hated training with them.

---

~The Training Fields~

“Look!” Volstagg pointed across the field, his thick voice echoing so that all the soldiers turned to watch as Loki descended the stone steps from the upper level to the training grounds. “Silvertongue has come for a fight! Try lifting a sword this time, Loki! I know they’re heavier than those little daggers, but give it a try!”

Thor’s friends laughed boisterously, but the rest of the men resumed their fighting. It was well known that Loki had a dangerous temper, and with a flick of his wrist, his sorcery could produce as much and more pain than the four warriors’ weapons combined. Thor’s friends only mocked him because they could hide behind Thor.

Idiots.

Try lifting a sword? Little daggers? Really?

Please.

Just yesterday, with only one little dagger, Loki had bested Volstagg and that stupid ax the brute loved to swing around. Loki rolled his eyes. That was why Volstagg was throwing jabs at him—Bruised ego. Honestly, their insults did bother him, but he usually didn’t bother much with retaliation. Water off a duck’s back and all that.

However, he was in no mood for it today. He launched one of his little daggers at Volstagg’s nearly seven-foot body, and it sliced through the thin skin of his cheek. Dark crimson blood streamed out of the wound, and the man looked genuinely stunned as he touched his face and drew his hand away, fingers smeared with red. Loki smirked at the shocked faces of his brother’s friends. Oh, come now, that wound would be healed within ten minutes. Barely a scratch. He squinted to see it better and pursed his lips.

Alright, well, a very bloody scratch.

To be fair, he hadn’t meant to resort to actual violence, but Volstagg’s comment had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d been feeling on edge for a while now. Shrugging, he turned away from the warrior. Maybe he was just unbelievably bored. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Álfar, the head trainer, approaching him with reserve as the training continued.

Mumbling “oh for Hel’s sake” under his breath, Loki looked down, pretending to adjust his vambraces.

“Your Highness,” Álfar paused to clear his throat as Loki swiped his hair out of his still clean face. “You are spot on with your dagger skills. I honestly don’t know how you do it. It’s impressive, to say the least.”

“What of it, Álfar?” he asked, shifting his gaze away from the instructor to smirk at Sif who was watching him carefully with steely eyes.

The head trainer continued. “However, I see that tonight you are perhaps a bit more war hungry than usual. We are only training, Your Highness. We do not seek to wound our fellow countryman. They are our brothers in arms, after all.”

Loki smiled, seeing a convenient escape from the uninteresting and pointless sparring that his father was forcing him into.

“I fear I may have lost my composure due to an earlier conflict. I believe it is best that I take my leave.” He bowed his head slightly to the head trainer who returned the gesture, covering his heart with his right fist.

“Prince Loki.”

Winking at Sif, Loki kissed the air in her direction. Grinning, thankful to leave the arena, he gracefully ascended the stairs taking three steps at a time. His presence had been requested in the throne room later anyhow, so he would have found an excuse to leave one way or another. Supposedly a foreign guest was to arrive that night, and his mother had said that he “might like her”… whatever that meant. His mother could be annoyingly cryptic at times. She was also usually right.

About everything.

---

~The Throne Room~

Odin’s voice bounced off the walls as he stood from his throne. “What does Freya of our sister realm, Vanaheim, call for?”

Queen Frigga descended the throne steps, and upon meeting her many times removed relative at the base of the dais, she opened her arms wide and embraced her.

“Frigga, dearest!” the woman chimed, her tone rather melodramatic.

The women held each other as though they had not seen the other for an age. Freya was the Goddess of Fertility and was as beautiful and golden as the queen. She resided in Vanaheim, the only other realm that housed gods and goddesses. Her nine daughters lived with her, and she did not call often.

Stepping down a few stairs, Odin sighed, clearly impatient. “Ladies, you can visit later. Freya, state your business with Asgard.”

The women approached him, and Frigga looked to her sons standing on either side of Odin. Thor gave a charming smile to the young woman who trailed behind his mother and Freya. Loki merely lifted his chin and looked on curiously. Freya bowed low, displaying a ridiculous amount of cleavage to which Odin looked away, shaking his head.

“Greetings, Allfather! Princes Thor and Loki! My goodness how you’ve grown into such handsome young men!”

Frigga cleared her throat, rolling her eyes as she climbed the dais to stand near her youngest. Loki sighed and followed suit, eyes rolling as well at Freya’s blatant flirting with men less than half her age. The young woman behind her let out a clearly exasperated huff, and the older woman turned to glare at her. Odin stood taller, peering at her out of his one good eye, the other having been lost during a great war with Jotunheim many centuries ago now covered with a golden metal patch.

“Freya, state your business.”

“Allfather, I come to make a formal request to Queen Frigga concerning the studies of my youngest. I present to you my daughter, Sigyn of Vanaheim.”

Hearing her name spoken, the young woman stepped forward and bowed respectfully. “Your majesty.”

Not as tall as Asgardian women, Sigyn was smaller with little wrists and hands, nails painted black, which were clasped in front of her. Long, shining dark hair hung in waves, framing a heart shaped face with grey-green eyes like a storm blown sea. She seemed relaxed, not remotely intimidated to stand before the throne. Unlike her golden mother, Sigyn was all fair skin, with rose tinted cheeks. Her dress was the color of charcoal, slightly iridescent, turning black as she shifted her stance.

Thor was staring, and when he realized she was glaring at him in response to his ogling, he turned bright red, looking away quickly. Lips pursed, hollowing her cheekbones, she returned her attention to Odin.

Loki bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing at the annoyed look she’d aimed at his brother. While her attention was elsewhere, he took in her entire form, petite but strong. To him, everything about her was just…well…

…perfect.

Feeling entirely too warm in his leather attire now, he sighed.

GodsDAMN.

His mother had been right…again.

Sigyn—He loved her name instantly. He hoped she would love his name equally. He wanted to hear her say it.

Interest piqued, he tilted his head to the side and spread his legs a touch wider. She turned her gaze toward him at the movement, and this time she didn’t glare. Odin was talking, but Loki couldn’t hear the words. He was too busy listening to her thoughts, which was rather invasive and unfair of him, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He watched her out of his periphery while supposedly watching his father, her thoughts floating through his mind while she looked at him.

Wowー her eyes moved from his boots slowly up his long legs, hovering a bit longer than strictly necessary at the top of them, and followed the line from his narrow hips to his broad shoulders and lingered at his neck which was exposed by the open collar of his jacket. Finally, her eyes landed on his face.

Damn, he’s beautiful. My god his eyes. So green. Wait… have I met him before? No, I’d remember HIM, for sure. How tall is he? I want a closer look. When will I get to talk to him? Can I stay in his room? Right. Good luck with that. He’s a damn prince, what am I? I want to kiss him. I bet he’s a good kisser. His hair looks so soft. I hope he likes girls. Oh shit…what if he doesn’t? It would be JUST my luck.  Maybe he’d make an exception out of pity for the lost little foreign exchange student? Ugh, I’m in so much trouble.

Loki had to fight to keep a straight face. He was damn near about to jump down the stairs, swear that yes, he liked girls, and give her the kiss she wanted, but her thoughts stopped abruptly. She seemed to wake from hypnosis and returned her eyes to Odin, who had apparently been asking her questions. She furrowed her brow and squeezed the bridge of her nose before letting out a heavy sigh.

“Forgive me, Your Majesties. It seems my journey took a toll on my head. What was asked of me?” Loki had been an unexpected and gorgeous distraction for her, and it was nearly impossible to pay attention to anything other than him.

Thor scoffed, annoyed with her extremely clear preference for his brother. First that girl in the garden and now this woman?

“The Bifrost is rather body blowing, isn’t it, Lady Sigyn? The Vanir are not known for their strong stomachs.” He hadn’t meant to speak so rudely, and the resulting guilt brought a deep scowl across his face.

Loki’s eyes widened substantially. It wasn’t often that his brother threw insults, less so when the object of said insults was a pretty little thing he might have persuaded into his bed. Loki opened his mouth but closed it upon seeing her reaction. She looked positively murderous. He quickly changed his earlier judgment of her. No, she was, without question, not a “pretty little thing.”

Pretty? Without a doubt. Little thing? Absolutely not. It was clear that this woman could not be persuaded to do anything.

Closing her eyes, jaw clenched, chest heaving, she blew out a long breath as though she was attempting to control a knee jerk reaction, a treacherous word aimed at the golden son or a hidden dagger spun artfully in his direction. Freya’s eyes blew wide in poorly veiled terror as she stared at her daughter.

Sigyn fisted her hands at her sides, and Loki noticed a shift in the air, thick and heavy, smelling of ashes. Like smoke billowing up from the hottest flames, a faint black swirling mass pooled around the hem of her dress. Just as soon as he saw it, however, it disappeared, and sighing, she uncurled her fists, a look of relief smoothing her features. 

Loki peered at the others questioningly. Other than Freya, and maybe his mother, none of them seemed to have noticed anything. His father, brother, and the guards were all oblivious. He shook his head. He must have imagined it.

Odin’s voice echoed in the great hall, his impatience growing, the flames in the sconces flickering with the sound.

“I asked when you wished to start your studies with my queen.”

Voice low but feminine and silky smooth, Sigyn answered firmly. “Immediately, Your Majesty.”

The king looked to his wife, who nodded and smiled at the daring young Vanir.

“The guest quarters are already prepared,” Frigga said, “and the guards will escort you and see that your belongings are brought there. I expect you to arrive at my quarters immediately after the morning meal tomorrow. I do not tolerate tardiness, dear girl. Your lessons will conclude midday. Night meal is served at first dark. The rest of the time is yours to command. I think you will find there is much to entertain you in Asgard.”

The queen glanced sideways at her youngest at the word entertain, and snapping her fingers, a woman in a simple blue dress with high neck and long sleeves—a servant, Sigyn assumed—appeared at Sigyn’s side.

“Lady Sigyn, this is Kyaer, your handmaiden. Kyaer, the lady has traveled from Vanaheim and will reside at the palace for the unforeseen future while she studies Sorcery as my pupil.”

Loki’s head snapped up—Sigyn is a SORCERESS?

He’d not been paying any great attention to the reason for her residency. So, he had seen billowy black clouds move about her. As though he hadn’t already found her unbelievably enticing, the dark beauty now pulsed with magic. It was an invisible and dangerous black cloak of power encircling her small frame. His breath caught in his chest as she turned to walk back down the long path to the doors of the regal room, not before sparing him a positively ravishing smile over her shoulder.