Cleave | Loki x Reader

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1522 A.D. / 3811 Y.o.N. (Year of the Nine)

Asgard

Y/n

The day I first came face to face with my prophesied destiny remains forever etched in my mind; every second of it remembered eternally. It had been in the Midgardian year of 1522.
Still I recall waking to my handmaiden, Revna, entering my chambers at dawn, bearing breakfast for me to enjoy in bed – an old Vanir custom performed each new month on the seventh break of dawn. The first faint rays of sunlight softly caressed my cheeks, and Revna's gentle hands stroked my wild mane of hair into place as she was smiling down at me. I once more felt the ease washing over me knowing that she was to accompany me on the upcoming journey.
What I also remember is that she had then taken to informing me of various plans laid out for me for after breakfast, including ones such as taking a bath and preparing myself so that my attendants may start with assisting to get me dressed for this unsettlingly special day ...
Returning to my chambers, I was greeted by a vast ceremonial kyrtill spread across my already made bed.  Intrigued but hesitantly, I scanned the faces of my attendants for an explanation. At that time, I was but a mere three hundred years old – roughly the equivalent of a nine-year-old in Midgardian terms – and never before had I worn such pompous garments. But before I was able to ask what the occasion for such lavish display could possibly be, Revna gently took my small hand in hers and guided me to the privacy the room divider granted.

'You are going to meet the All-Father today, lítið snjókorn,' she said while she made to rid me of my silly violet-coloured nightwear. Half of her dark raven hair was braided back, with one particular lock shaped into something resembling an arrow snaking itself around her head, its end magically fixed at her temple.

'If that is so, I wish to have my hair arranged just like yours. Might that be realisable for today, Revna?'
'You learn that you will meet Odin himself today, and the first thing that comes to that pretty little mind of yours, is how you wish to have your hair arranged?' Her voice held a chuckle within, a familiar sound that always succeeds at making me feel at home.
'And now all she does is gaze at me with those bewitching little doe eyes! Gods, what extraordinary creation you have placed in our midst! You truly are one of a kind, lítið Y/n!'
'Odin is the All-Father, no? Therefore, he is family - at least in a way he is, right? And isn't meeting family a joyous yet rather ... ordinary occasion? Tell me, why should I feel any different than before, silly?' I grinned up at her and she gave my nose a tiny boop with her index finger, shaking her head in genuine amusement. 'And yet you still wish for your hair to be like mine, which is anything but an ordinary technique, Y/n/n.'
'My hair ought to be a proper match to that kyrtill I must wear, ought it not?'
'It's not considered a traditional Vanir or Æsir hairstyle for an encounter with the All-Father but rather a technique worn in battle by the Ljósálfar! If one were to seek matching hair for a kyrtill like yours, this is far from what one would covet, my lítið.'
'It might fail to be a match in one's eyes but it most certainly is in mine, Revna. And I believe it to be just so in yours, too.' I knew she saw the mischief gleaming in my gaze as well as in my insidious grin. Sighing in defeat, she took a chair and pushed me gently onto it by the shoulders. A cocky smile of victory spread on my face as she began to braid the single white lock of hair around my head. Born with it, I'd always been oddly proud of my icy white lock of hair nestled in between all that black. Naturally, I was delighted then to see it displayed that way.

That that day was undoubtedly meant to be a very special and extraordinary occasion, I, of course, had been aware of, but back then, all I could ponder was the grandeur of the festivities – and most importantly, the feast – when gazing down all those elaborate garments fitted onto me.
My mother had raised me to become a princess of Asgard, the home realm of the All-Father and the Æsir; it had been crystal clear to me why the king's visit was deemed so important. The infamous rainbow bridge Bifröst, its all-seeing guard Heimdall, and the magnificence of the royal palace of Odin Borson – all these details on the realm of the great Æsir, I've already had  memorised by the tender age of 100. Yet, I didn't know or question why I was destined to become a princess of a realm that wasn't even my home, that I hadn't ever seen with my own eyes. When I was first told, I simply didn't think much of it, for my attention had been focused on my friends joyously frolicking outside in the mud – their skin and the earth glistening from all the rain – without me. As time passed, Asgard became just another chapter in my extensive curriculum. Hence, I just hadn't expected this day to arrive this soon.

The second I descended the stairs to the ballroom, my gaze gravitated towards my mother, positioned between Odin – whose visage I had encountered countless times within the pages of countless books – and his wife Frigga, goddess of marriage, prophecy, and motherhood. Ironically so, these attributes were to become significantly meaningful to me in no less than half an hour later, and that for far beyond the duration of the day's festivities.

As I made my way to my mother, I felt more eyes on me than just the three pairs ahead but I knew better than to break eye contact with the royalty of Asgard.
Odin's authoritative, rich voice made sure to fill the room once I had curtseyed at the foot of the stairs. 'Y/n of Vanaheimr, Luziodóttir and last of the hero-born,' he addressed me, 'say, do you still indulge in the studies of Midgardian cultures, just as your mother informed me many moons ago?'
'Yes All-Father, I very much still do so.'
'Dear child, do enlighten us further.'
'I will, All-Father, thank you.' In order to express my gratitude for his interest in my upbringing, I went for yet another curtsey. 'My studies on Midgardian culture, especially on the European culture of my father, commenced half a decade ago.'

I went on to share with him my knowledge of the great Scandinavian war in which he himself had taken part in – an heroic feat which led to the Midgardian worship of him and the Æsir race of gods. I had also delved deep and thoroughly into the topic of the Crusades by then.
It was undeniable that I was failing to conceal my fascination with the 11th and 12th centuries of Midgardian time counting – what the humans nowadays call the High Medieval Period – since this very age had been my father's.
Born in 1203 in Florence, Italy, to the Vanir goddess of realm-travel and errands, Gná, and the Midgardian hero Luzio Auditore, I had arrived at a time during which my father had liberated the Earth from an extraterrestrial threat amid the Crusades. He passed away when I was but thirty; as absurd as it may sound to an Midgardian, to him, I had never been more than a babe. He met an ordinary end, which had fitted his seemingly ordinary life he led to the outside. Unfortunately, was this meant was that I would never be granted the gift of wandering the great halls of Valhalla alongside my father; he hadn't died a hero's death on the battlefield.
Before him, there had not been a single hero for over two centuries. Even the preceding millennia had only seen about a handful of true heroes. Heroes had always played a significant role in our prophecies; mine was no exception. Most of Midgardian heroes had risen in the times they now call the ancient world. Since my father, there hadn't been a hero for another eight hundred years.

I was a hero-born. But most importantly, I was, supposedly, the last of my kind.

Today, I understand the occasion of the Allfather's visit from now five hundred years ago. However, at the time, all I knew was who I was, lacking any profound understanding of what it truly meant to be me.

3.5 pages
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● S O N G ●

The Skye Boat Song - The Hound + The Fox

○ G l o s s a r y ○

Y.o.N = Year of the Nine. Modern Asgardian Age began with Odin Borson's conquest of the Nine Realms - the year 0, so to speak. An Asgardian year cannot remotely be measured by human standards; a year does not necessarily consist of four seasons. Oftentimes a year is a single long winter or a summer for Asgardians, yet they eventually took up the human notion of separating a year into 12 months consisting of roundabout 30 days. Albeit for them, the perception of time is wildly different. They physically age about two years in a century, whereas hybrid offsprings age twice as fast, often three to four years the century.

Lítið Snjókorn = little snowflake

Kyrtill = formal ancient norse dress

All-Father = odin, god of war and death etc. and the king of asgardÆsir = race of the gods of asgard

Ljósálfar = race of the light elves of Álfheimr
Dóttir = daughter

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