A dual pov narrative from both main characters-Loki and Annalise. If you enjoy slow burn, immersive stories, with a good plot and the long awaited spice, then stop your search. Here is the story for you!
As the newly crowned king of Jotunheim, Loki...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A soft hum gently wakes me up from my sleep. As my eyes flutter open, I see Loki resting peacefully beside me.
After our heartfelt conversation last night, he had used his magic to apply additional healing to Leon's injured arm, then tried to convince me to retire to his chambers, insisting I get some rest.
But I refused, unwilling to leave Leon's side during this difficult time. When Loki contested, I reminded him of how he'd watched over me when I was recovering, and I asked, "Did you leave me?" He didn't need to answer; the solemn look on his face told me he had not.
As soon as Loki recognised that I could not be swayed, he instead guided me to a large, plush sofa, sitting down and pulling me into his lap. It is here that I now find myself, having slept for hours nestled against him.
I keep my movements featherlight as I detach myself from Loki's lap, moving on tiptoes towards Leon. The warm glow of the fireplace has brought a peachy hue back to his once-pale skin, a sign that the much-needed warmth has seeped back into his bones.
"Oh, Leon, why didn't you just go home?" I murmur, gazing down at him. "Vannaheim was right there, why did you follow me and put yourself in such peril?"
Though I question him, I know the answer. He is my guard, a loyal Vanir warrior. His pride and his unwavering sense of duty led him through the treacherous snow of Jotunheim, driven by his desire to fulfil his sworn oath to protect me.
As I look upon Leon's face, I notice the little tufts of hair peeking out from under his ever-present helmet. Leon's fascination with his helmet has always been a curious phenomenon. He insists on wearing it, even when off-duty, a fact that Ivor once commended, declaring it a sign of his constant battle readiness.
Last night, when Leon had been in such a perilous state, I was unsuccessful in removing his helmet, the metal jammed tightly onto his head. But now, with his face no longer swollen from the cold, the helmet appears to be sitting a bit more loosely.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I reach out with steady, delicate hands and gently tug at the headgear, coaxing it loose. After a moment of gentle coercion, the helmet finally releases from its tight seal, and I gasp quietly as I witness a sprawling abundance of bright, golden hair cascading around Leon's face, flowing past his shoulders in unruly waves.
I'm captivated by the unexpected sight, having never imagined the stoic, ever-helmeted warrior to possess such luxurious, honeyed locks. The stark contrast between his dark, defined brows and the vibrant, golden hue of his hair is unusual.
Even more unusual is for a soldier within the Vanir army to have anything other than short, pragmatic haircuts. They are the norm, and maintaining such long hair is practically unheard of.
Sudden realisation dawns on me: if Ivor were to catch sight of Leon's luxurious mane, he'd likely be subjected to humiliating punishment and forced to submit to a close-cropped, military-style cut. No wonder Leon has been so insistent on keeping his helmet on at all times—he doesn't want to be the target of ridicule or forced to conform to conventional standards with a short style.
