Impassive as a glacier, the King of Jotunheim observed the god-bloods. He was not pleased. A child of the Æsir gods, one who had slaughtered many of his brethren, and a child of the Vanir, a people of harvest and warmth that were the very opposite of his own people, had entered his halls as his prisoners. Glowering eyes as red as carbuncles studied the warm-blooded creatures as he tried to decide what he was to do with them. Postured on a throne formed on dark granite and basalt, the king templed his fingers and made a low bellow of indecision. The sound echoed through the chamber.
Thor and Sigyn, surrounded and overcome by their jotun captors, were forced to kneel before the frost giant king. A vein pulsated in the Æsir prince's temple at this symbol of surrender. Odin, his great father, had not submitted in the wars between the Æsir and the Jotun, so why should he be forced to kneel before this beast? He wanted to fight. He wanted battle. Sigyn, scared at the watchful eyes of the jotun soldiers positioned around the room, reached out to take hold of his hand. Thor battered it away.
"Godlings," Laufey mused darkly, "Whatever shall we do with these warm little god-bloods?"
As if the frost giant's words had woken him from a trance, Thor jolted to his feet. Even without the adequate light to spill over the golden plates of his armour and without the company of his warriors, there was fire in the Asgardian prince's eyes as he reached for his concealed weapon's belt. There was a sharp, sickening sound as the dagger hissed from its sheath. Growling in defiance, the boy gestured to the enthroned king with a jab of his dagger hilt. The King rose a hairless brow.
"You shall release us this instant!" Thor demanded. "Or else!"
The King of Jotunheim snorted. Amused by the princeling's threat, the jotun soldiers chuckled mockingly. Towering around the captives, each of the sentries were bare-chested, dressed in only their rawhide breechclouts, smeared in their intricate jötunn war paint, and armed with wicked-looking spears. As the sound of their cruel laughter reached her ears, Sigyn tried to curl herself beside the prince to stop herself from shivering. It was clear that the prince was not in the mood to comfort, for he did not even glance at her but kept his eyes trained on Laufey. The princess shut her eyes tightly, feeling tears welling there. Though she couldn't stop them, she forced herself to quieten her whimpers and clung on tightly to Thor.
"Release you?" Laufey considered, "Now, princeling, why ever should I do that?"
"You call me princeling," Thor's shouts echoed in the chamber like shots from a skilled bow, "So you are not ignorant to the fact that my name is Odinson. I am the crown prince of Asgard, the immortal city, and will one day become ruler and protector of the Nine Realms. I am the son of the great Odin, who bested you in battle all those centuries ago. So you will release us, creature!"
Laufey snarled.
A hiss erupted in the throne room. Like a wounded snake's hatred, the hiss was evil and destructive as it came from the soldiers positioned around the chamber. Along with the hiss came the rattle of broadswords being unsheathed and the scrape of spears being drawn, the bang of the hilts of daggers and the bustle of armour as the loyal jotuns wished to redeem their king. Wash away the insult with the godling's blood, their vicious cries pierced. Separate that filthy yellow head from its shoulders! Grabbing the boy, a jotun yanked back his hair and pressed a dagger to his throat.
"Kill him!" A jotun spat.
"Spill his blood!"
"End the Æsir-bloodline!"
Sigyn's heart was thumping like an injured rabbit as she cried out, "Wait!"
In an action as quick and permanent as snuffing out a candle, the Princess of Vanaheim did something that surprised each person in the cold, dark heart of the Jotunheim castle. Throwing herself at the foot of the king, she sank to her knees and prostrated herself. Still wearing the white gown trimmed with the fur of mountain hairs, her skirts fanned out like a blossoming lotus as she hit the ground. On her knees and palms, the cold stone stung her exposed skin. The jotuns were shocked. Thor looked disgusted.
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Lore: When a Trickster Meets His Match
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