I'll Never Tell

Act Natural

Notes:

Jeg gir: I yield
Faen: Fuck

Grumbling to herself about being forced into caring for the lady, Marit ambled to Loki's rooms in order to fetch Petra. She silently ticked off the things she needed to get done that afternoon. Find the elf, show her around the kitchens and castle, ensure she knew where to avoid villagers, etc. Marit was responsible for all of this while simultaneously watching over Loki and Jötunheim. If she didn't pity Petra, the girl would be a nuisance, but there was something pathetic about her that provoked a sense of protection in the giant, much to her dismay.

For formality's sake, she banged on the door to Loki's chambers. The steady drip of a stalactite echoed from above, but she was otherwise met with silence. Planting a hand on her hip, she pounded on the door once more.

"Lady? I'm coming in."

Without waiting for permission, she hastened inside, eyes flicking from the bed, to the hearth, to the dressing area. She frowned, turning in a circle and muttering under her breath. Marit abandoned finding Petra in Loki's rooms and started to stalk out the door when she heard a guttural choke. With the sigh of an overworked parent, Marit shuffled to the bathroom and crossed her arms at the scene before her.

Petra wretched into the toilet bowl, her face wan and shining with beads of sweat.

Without pretense, the advisor spoke. "Do you have the fever?"

The elf was too lethargic to startle. She managed to lift her dull eyes to Marit's face and shook her head, clapping her hand against her mouth as the motion triggered another wave of nausea. Forcing down the urge to be sick, she paused for a moment to ensure success, then spoke.

"I think I'm pregnant."

Marit's brows lifted in surprised hope, though she remained confused. "The majority of the Jötnar doubt the possibility of crossbreeding between you and the King. Why do you think you're pregnant?"

Irritated at their lack of faith, Petra placed a cool palm on her clammy forehead. "Morning sickness," she grunted.

Marit rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "It's not morning, it's afternoon. You have the fever and delirium has set in. This will not please Loki." Grumbling, she made to leave.

"Wait," Petra rasped.

"What? It will take me time to fetch a healer, what do you want?"

"Morning sickness doesn't always have to be in the morning."

Marit's blank stare heavily implied that Petra's explanation was lacking.

"When elves get pregnant, usually they get sick. It can happen in the morning, but at other times of the day too. It's just called morning sickness. This is supposed to happen."

The older woman squinted. "If—If—that's what this is, how is that standard for elven pregnancies? How has your species survived? You can barely fight, and your reproductive process is faulty. You are so feeble."

Petra responded by gagging and glaring simultaneously. Wiping her mouth, she rubbed her eyes. "It's mild, the sickness. At least it's supposed to be. I think this is mild?"

Sagging against the toilet, she released a shaky breath as her eyes closed. Her stomach rolled again and she wrapped her arm around her middle. Her delicate fingers rested limply against her side, causing Marit's eyes to widen.

The sound of rustling fabric prompted Petra to open her eyes and she yelled when she caught a glimpse of Marit exiting the room.

"Wait!"