Your Hand To Hold

Chapter Eighteen: Love in a Hopeless Place (TW)

**Please note, this chapter will feature non-graphic discussion of memories depicting religious trauma, domestic abuse, rape and suicide which may be upsetting for some readers. Please proceed with caution and skip the chapter if necessary. Your mental wellbeing will always come first**

          Several days passed with few exchanges between Loki and me outside of the occasional song or spoken sonnet. We kept things as quiet as we could otherwise, though I continued to wake in the night, screaming. Bjørn was always quick to bring more water for tea at night, and he always made sure it was hot to start, even if it did not remain so. The look of pity on his face I could have done without each time he woke me up, yet I appreciated that he cared. Once the spells were adjusted, it became harder to hear him past a certain distance and near impossible to hear Loki, yet Bjørn always made sure to let me know that he would let Loki know that I was alright. Such a little thing that meant so much.

Frigga visited with me almost every evening, just before I would attempt to sleep. It was almost like clockwork after a while. Bjørn would arrive with my pitcher of hot water for the evening, and the moment he left, Frigga would appear. She would tell me how the others were doing, often apologizing profusely for them as it seemed Odin was at odds with each of them; though predominantly Thor. Despite her assurances that everything would work itself out, I could tell from the way she acted that she worried that if things did not get sorted, soon, she would lose her remaining child as Thor had taken to wandering the realms in search of combat. My attempts to reassure her without revealing my knowledge did little, yet I still tried.

As my natal day drew closer, her frustration seemed to grow more defined, and she no longer attempted to hide her growing anger toward her husband. Using a great deal of her power the evening before, she had washed and braided my hair while she had sung one of her lullabies to me. When she had finished, she allowed me to open the package that Bjørn had delivered along with my hot water that evening. Within it was a new dress in beautiful shades of turquoise and emerald with black and gold embroidery, one of the smallest nettle and honey cakes with almond frosting I had ever seen, and a familiar-looking book of folktales by the Brothers Grimm.

"I would have given anything to have been there to celebrate with you..." Her eyes were filled with as much sorrow as mine.

I nodded softly, forcing a well-practiced smile. "I understand. It is simply not a good time right now, and it is only a birthday. I shall have many others." She frowned at me, her sorrow seeming to deepen despite my words and I worried I had not been as convincing as I had hoped as she patted my cheek.

"I feel that I have failed you..."

I shook my head so strongly, I almost feared I would undo all of the hard work she had done to braid such beautiful and slender heart shapes into my wild hair. "No. No, never. That is not possible. You could never fail me, Mother. Our time is simply very limited for now; things will get better and we will be together again someday. You must have faith, just as I do."

She sighed and nodded. "I fear that you may be the wisest of us all, doomed to forever have such wisdom fall upon ears set to reject you." She pressed her lips to my forehead then, and I could not tell if it was her magic or simply how much I missed her, yet I could swear I felt them upon my brow. "In case I cannot find a way to say it tomorrow evening, happy birthday sweet girl. You have grown to be exactly as I knew you would be." I blinked away tears then as she smiled back at me, her magic sparkling as she disappeared to leave me alone once more.

Sitting on my bed a short while later, I picked at my dinner, the cake wrapped tightly in the cheesecloth it had been wrapped in and then a damp towel had been placed under my bed as I had become accustomed to doing with the bread Hlíf sent to me. I had a cup of tea to accompany my small bowl of porridge with a sausage- a particular treat on this evening- as I thumbed through the index in the book of folktales. I could recall having enjoyed several of the stories within the volume, yet the story of the shoes that were danced to pieces had been my favorite and still was.