Cleave | Loki x Reader

• one - a betrothal •

Present day,
2011 A.D. / 4300 Y.o.N. (Year of the Nine),

Asgard

Y/n

It is a gift of life that we do not know what awaits us.
Well, I suppose that gift must be someone else's.

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As I stride down the corridor, I feel the piercing gazes of all of Asgard upon me; feel various types of seiðr trying to penetrate the walls of my mind.
They always try to read me in ceremonies like this. But there has never been a ceremony like this before.
Thank the Norns she won't become queen, they must be thinking, she isn't even Æsir.
Their xenophobia isn't lost on me, subliminal though it may be. Xenophobia - a Midgardian word. How ironic for my people to invent a word, which best befits the one being on Asgard with their blood running through her veins.
And that's what it is: A fear buried deep in their subconscious. Though I am prophesied to save the worlds from falling into nothingness, they still wonder if my blood's power might someday lead me astray. This fear, their relentless probing of my thoughts, stems from the unknown, and it is okay – I love Asgard with every fibre of my body and will for ever be accepting of my fate to save their race. Our race.

Ragnarök stands for the destruction of all nine worlds. Starting with Asgard. They are to burn, but from the ashes, all is meant to start anew.
All but the Æsir; these all too powerful gods are to fall, never to rise again.
I cannot allow that to happen, and all I am able to do is pray for them to see that.

My dress billows around my legs as a soft breeze manages to settle my nerves.
Everything will be okay. Thor will be king.
The moment my inner eye travels over the letters of his name forming in my mind, I catch his all-consuming smile, broader than I have ever seen it, and my heart swells comfortably.
I hadn't realised that I had turned my head to look at him, standing near the entrance in waiting for his father – the All-Father – to announce him.
My hair, styled in an intricate crown, tickles my ears, and tiny hairs entangle themselves in my eyelashes. Silently, I curse Randi for suggesting this style. Revna would have been furious.
With every step, I fear the crown of hair might tumble and break, but it's just hair, I tell myself.
Everything will be okay. I won't be queen.
Yet still, 'uneasy lies the head that wears a crown' – even if it's made out of nothing but dark hair and pins.

Turning over the emerald ring on my thumb again and again, I finally reach the dais. Only to settle at my mother's side. My head held up, focus straight ahead, my gaze meets with a pair of eyes in waiting to catch mine.
You did it, I think. You caught me, as usual.

What did you expect, his smirk asks me in return.
Sometimes, I wonder whether our conversations are ever truly spoken aloud or if they all exist like this one – silent and across a room full of people.
Good thing gods are never in need of glasses. He would certainly look magnificent with a pair, though, no doubt.
Everything will be okay. We will be okay.

'My son, the prince of Asgard, and the Lady Y/n, future princess of Asgard, will you please stand before me?' Odin's voice echoes through the great hall.
Straightening my posture, I take a step forward at the same time he does. We've practised this a thousand times before. In the centre of the dais, we come to a halt, bow and curtsey to one another.
He takes my hand, bringing it up to his lips to place a featherlight kiss atop –  just as he's supposed to.
What he isn't supposed to do is linger and whisper, 'You do look absolutely devine, m'Lady,' against the back of my hand.
Blushing, I make to face the All-Father when he adds, 'Even when that hair isn't what I anticipated you to don tonight, yngri hetja.'
He squeezes my fingers and grazes the ring. He then follows my lead and faces his father as well.
I can't help but drown out Odin's words as my mind recalls the moment he has just referred to.
We were so young then; at a ceremony much like this one – the start of it all, if you like – and now we're here. Finally arriving.