Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

2 | Turning Pages

The book presently spread over Y/N's lap focuses on religions of the Vanir kingdom. Its binding is coming undone, Anthony Merlmon's scribbly sentences long and smudged where his hand has leaned on the page.

Too tired to settle and decipher the author's scrawl properly, Y/N turns the pages slowly, her eyes focusing on the occasional crude picture or diagram.

She likes the ones of people with markings all over their body and faces.

They look like paint more than tattoos, sigils to wish good luck and keep evil spirits at bay.

She and Loki used to laugh about the Vanir's fanciful beliefs, making fun of all they take so seriously.

Y/N imagines Loki now, walking the Vanir kingdom's streets completely void of these protective markings, Vanirian people running from him because they fear he's riddled with demons.

Y/N's lips almost twitch into a smile as she heaves another book onto the bed.

This one is not written by Odin's spy, but rather by a Vanirian person themself. Smelling exotic and sweet, it's one of the books that was sent to help Loki learn of his new life. 

A translation sheet falls out of the first few pages, but Y/N had sat with The Prince while he'd studied for so long she can now pick out a few words without needing it.

The book seems to be full of recipes.

Puzzled, Y/N wonders if it's customary for a prince to have to prepare his own meals in Vanir---and then realises it had probably been sent as more of a menu, so he knows what to expect of his new chefs.

Interested, she leafs through a few pages, picking out words here and there.

They still cause a slight pain in her temple---so many vowels and confusing punctuation---but she finds herself proud as she manages a whole sentence.

The Vanir appear to like things that burn the tongue---onions, chillies, peppers, dustings of spicy seasonings. Most of the vegetables mentioned are rare in Asgard, but merchants sometimes bring them from down south where it's hot enough for them to grow. The herb and spice trail loops about south too, the Vanir apparently having first pick at all the prickly, hot powders and crushed seed pods while the Asgardians make due with simple mint and tame parsley.

-- ❈ --

Y/N is still reading when someone brings her her dinner later that evening. 

Usually, that person is a scrawny kitchen maid—relieved to be free from Yllva for a few heavenly minutes—but today someone else's head pops round Y/N's dormitory door. 

"Hello, dear," Alfdis greets, nudging the door open with her hip. She's balancinng a bowl of something on a tray, but Y/N's sense of smell hasn't returned enough for her to make a guess at what it might be. 

Shuffling over in her neat work shoes, Alfdis moves quickly for her age, so fast sometimes Y/N worries her complicated arrangement of bones might be shaken loose and fall all over the flagstones in a heap. Carefully, she passes Y/N's meal to her and takes a seat by her side on the bed.

It's a single cot---narrow as an outstretched arm---but Alfdis doesn't take up much room. The matress stuffing barley bends below her measley weight. 

Perhaps she has hollow bones, Y/N wonders absently; like a bird. She wouldn't be surprised; time has eaten away at most other parts of the older woman; her hairline, her cheeks, and any rebelious desires she might have once had.