Recompense [Fólkvangr End, Book 1] [Loki Fanfiction]

Chapter Nine

Author's Note: Hello there, good sirs/madames! I am really tired, and as Shannon well knows, I am procrastinating like nobody's business right about now. So, I've written a nice little chapter for you to sink your teeth into. Thor fans, you are in luck. This chapter features Thor himself! I promise we're getting back to Loki in the next chapter! Thanks for all the support I've gotten, and if you luck, don't hesitate to spread the word! For now, read, comment and vote! I like to hear from you guys!

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I poke my head around the door slowly, looking about for Thor. He is holding a rather large sword in his hands, examining the blade with specific care. I watch him for a moment—seeing Thor in his element is a nice change from dinner exchanges and aimless wandering with him. No, Thor is truly a king, even when he thinks no one is watching. A warrior, maybe, but a king nonetheless. I clear my throat and Thor turns, still grasping the sword.

“Lady Valkyrie, you found me!” He exclaims, seemingly delighted to see me.

“Val,” I state firmly. “And that is the last time I’m telling you!”

Thor grins, “My dear Lady Val, come,” he beckons with a raised wave of his hand. I push my weight off of the wall and cross my arms over my chest as I cross to where he stands. I cast a quick glance about the armory.

“Impressive,” I nod with a smile.

“Ah, I am glad you approve,” Thor says before looking at the sword once more. He returns it to the empty stand it clearly came from.

“So,” I raise an eyebrow, “when do I get my hands on one of these?”

Thor rubs his hands together and smirks. “Uh oh,” I gulp. “What is it?”

“I have had one chosen for you especially!” Thor turns and crosses to a different marble pedestal with a golden stand atop it, much like the one the weighty blade came from. He takes a sword from the stand and holds it aloft before me. The blade is slender but sharp and sturdy. The hilt is glistening white gold, a delicate runic inscription carved onto the glossy blade.

I breathe out, “It’s beautiful.”

He hands it to me and it is heavier in my hands than I expected. I slip my hand about the grip—a pattern of linked metal circles decorates the handle, alternating gold and silver. This thing is exquisite…and what am I to do with it?

“I suppose someone is going to have to teach me what in the name of Odin I am supposed to do with this thing?” I joke and Thor nods in agreement.

“That can be arranged quite promptly, I assure you, my lady,” Thor crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles bulging.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” I breathe out, gripping the gleaming thing tightly. Actually, I am completely terrified by the idea. And excited by the proposition of adventure. When in my life have I ever been handed a sword? A sword. Holy shit. I’m expected to use it? “This sword is mine? This sword is mine! Mine, mine, mine!” I prance around, waving the sword about.

Thor stares at me, his eyes wide and surprised. He holds his hands out trying to take the sword from me. “My lady, perchance I may take that from you before you harm yourself. Or me, for that matter.”

I halt, examining the situation. “Yeeeeaaaah,” I agree and hand the sword back to him.

Thor laughs and places the sword back where it belongs before turning back to me. “Am I allowed to name it? That’s what you do with swords, right?”

“I suppose so, indeed!” Thor claps his hands together and crosses back towards me. “What did you have in mind, young one?”

“Hmm, I need something cool,” I nod to myself, thinking. A grin spreads to my mouth. “What about Beowulf?”

Thor scoffs, “Hardly the name for such an elegant blade. Besides, I do not wish to be reminded of that cur.”

I stare at him incredulously, “Wait…you knew Beowulf?”

“Knew of him, indeed,” Thor sniffs, “his exploits are not quite what the humans have glorified.”

I can’t help but laugh. Bloody Beowulf. There goes that whole unit of English literature. I cross my arms over my chest and walk backwards towards the exit, Thor trailing me. I shrug and toss my hands up, “I suppose I need some time to think on it.”

I turn around and Thor comes to my side, closing the heavy doors behind us. “How went your conversing with my mother?”

“It was…nice,” Thor looks at me. “She’s a lovely woman, and she means well, but I can’t help but feel as though there is a part of me…a very repressed part of me…that terrifies her. I hate that more than anything. People fear me when I have done nothing wrong.”

Thor doesn’t say anything but instead nods and keeps walking. I stop where I stand and he gets close to the end of the hall before he realizes I am not beside him. He turns around, befuddled. I cross my arms over my chest and arch an eyebrow.

“My lady…?”

“So, that’s it? You’re not going to say anything? No kingly piece of advice in your roundabout way of speaking?”

He frowns and purses his lips tightly, “What do you wish me to say?”

I furrow my brow and open my mouth before closing it again. I shake my head. “I dunno.”

He comes to me and places a hand on each of my shoulders, gripping me tightly. He shakes me slightly and then touches my chin, forcing me to look up into his piercing blue eyes. I frown but I uncross my arms and allow him to hold me by the shoulders.

“There is something you must understand,” Thor begins, his voice low and his face close to mine. I can smell him—he smells of leather, wine and faintly of roses. Earthy. Or, I suppose I should say, Asgard-y?

“I do hope I am not interrupting something?” A familiar voice asks, lilted with amusement. I turn my head to see Fandral, leaning against the hall entrance. His disconcertingly charming grin is spread across his lips and he raises an eyebrow. Thor withdraws his hands from both my face and my shoulder and gestures for Fandral to join us. I roll my eyes as he approaches and he feigns insult.

“Thor, my lady,” he greets us in turn. He goes out of his way to reach past Thor and capture my hand with his, bringing it to his lips. Hmm. Seems to be a habit of his.

“’Sup, Fanna-bo-banna,” I slip into a low voice, popping my hip and making a weird hand gesture that I feel may or may not have been an accidental gang sign. The pair of them stares at me.

“I fear I will never get a grasp on Midgardian introductions…” Thor laments, shaking his head from side to side.

I throw my hands up, “It’s not Midgard. It’s just me.”

“Unique as always,” Fandral purrs.

“How about we stop dwelling on my quirks and we get some food. I’m famished!”

“Did someone say food?!” I hear Volstagg bellowing from down the hall.

I link my arm through Thor’s and Fandral latches onto my other, “Come, men! Volstagg’s food senses are tingling!”