Forever Yours

Chapter 1

When Thor stands on the edge of the cradle, small, chubby hands gripping the railing as he stares down at this squirming thing, he can’t help but frown before slowly reaching out his finger to poke at the child’s forehead in a curiosity only befitting the now oldest prince of Asgard. Apparently, Mother had said it was called a “Loki”, and this Loki happens to have soft skin and bright green eyes full of that same curiosity, and a look of horror at the giant blonde boy leaning over him. Of course, Thor doesn’t stop to think that he might frighten it, instead ignoring the cries echoing in his parent’s chambers as he grasps one small hand in his own to stop the flailing. A cool breeze fills the room, the curtains fluttering slightly with every gust, and a toothy grin stretches the boy’s mouth. He likes this brother person, he decides as the crying stops and instead Loki coos, his grip on Thor’s thumb tightening. That is, until Loki reaches up with his free hand to tug on Thor’s blonde hair that is currently hanging over the two of them like a curtain (Mother said he should get it cut; Thor threw a tantrum), the strands becoming a tangle mess as the small child yanks on his hair with a giggle, his little feet kicking the air as if they couldn’t possibly rest on the small mattress. With a yell, eyes brimming with tears though he will later deny it, he releases Loki’s hand to pry his fingers apart and jump off the cradle, his small cape he insists on wearing fluttering in the wind in the process. He wipes at his eyes, glaring at the once more wailing child.

“Stupid,” he pauses to sniff as the last of his tears were dried away, “little baby,” the young prince decides as Loki continues to cry. Eventually, the noise draws Frigga from her much needed break away from her children, abandoning her weaving where it sat, and she scolds her oldest son before picking Loki up from his bed and pressing him against her chest, humming a soothing lullaby.

Once the blue-eyed boy realizes he is no longer needed, he leaves back to his chambers with a sour look that causes even the most audacious of servants to glance away as their young prince who will one day be king makes his way to his room. As best as a child his age can, he slams his door before crawling onto his bed to glower at the ceiling for a good ten minutes or so before boredom and restlessness kick in. His curtains are thrown wide, the midday sun shining brightly across his marble floor, the warm afternoon calling to his every bone.  Though it is probably his imagination, he thinks the sun is shining on his toy army scattered around the room in different attack positions. Ceasing his pouting, he tumbles gracelessly to the ground before crawling over to pick them up and play with them. They’ve just returned from war with the Frost Giants, but there was a bigger, more pressing threat of some made up villain trying to take over the realms. It is a story he likes to play, and has been doing so for weeks, and it is far better than the annoying thing in another wing of the palace. How his mother and father can coo over such an atrocious being, he doesn’t yet know, but soon Loki is gone from his mind as he gets lost in his game of pretend. One day, Thor knows, he will be just as great as his wooden toys, if not better. Soon he’ll get his wooden sword to practice with, and then he can play pretend for real, and not just with large sticks found on the forest floor. Though he’ll have to find a new princess, because the last time he had tried to coax Sif into doing so, she had thrown her stick at him, nearly taking out an eye as she stomped away with her arms crossed and her head held high. Perhaps he can order one of the servant girls to play with them, but he knows Mother would only tell him how it was rude to misuse his power and that he shouldn’t force people to be friends with him but earn it.

Just as the plot thickens, the hero stepping in to sacrifice himself for the good of Yggdrasil, there’s a soft knock at his door, and Thor’s head snaps to it, the soldiers stilling in his hands. Without waiting for an answering call, Frigga pushes into his room, the small bundle tucked securely against her side. His mood is officially ruined, and returning to his pouting, he throws the toys down harshly, turning from her to glare at the floor and cross his arms across his lap. It’s not fair. This was supposed to be his game, and he doesn’t want either his mother or supposed brother to ruin it by ranting at him about morals and being a good little boy.