Beyla - Loki

The Kiss

The evening stretched on in golden warmth and rising laughter. The warriors had gathered at their long table, goblets overflowing with mead and ale, stories spilling louder with every refill. The air was thick with roasted meat, incense, and the burn of firelight on polished gold.

Beyla sat among them, a goblet of wine cradled in her hand, her laughter softer than usual. She was nestled between Lady Sif, poised and strong as ever, and the ever-smirking Fandral, who had only grown more relentless with drink.

"You're unusually quiet tonight, milady," Fandral remarked, leaning lazily into her space with a grin that begged for trouble. "What thoughts could possibly be keeping you so taciturn? Surely not boredom with our company."

Beyla smirked, swirling the wine in her goblet. "Perhaps a lady simply wishes for a moment of peaceful contemplation with her drink."

Sif chuckled, shaking her head at the sharpness of the reply.

"Peaceful contemplation?" Fandral scoffed dramatically, laying a hand over his heart. "Come now. A lady like you must have more thrilling things in that pretty head than peace."

Beyla sighed with exaggerated patience. "Alright, you've caught me," she said, eyes gleaming with mischief. She tipped her head back and drained the goblet in one smooth swallow.

Sif laughed aloud. "By the Norns, whatever it is must be very thought-provoking."

Rising to fetch the bottle, Beyla refilled her cup. But when she turned back, her smile faltered into something more thoughtful. "Have you ever felt as though you were meant for something beyond what was given to you?"

The chatter at the table hushed. Even Volstagg lowered his goblet, curiosity piqued.

"I am the Goddess of Bees," Beyla continued, lifting her hand. "I tend to Midgard's growth... yet I have never set foot upon it. I feel it in my chest, this pull. That my purpose reaches further than pollination and honey." She gestured, and at once a small swarm gathered at her command, bees shimmering golden in the firelight before flitting to the nearest blooms. With a sigh, she sank back into her seat, frustration tugging at her features.

Volstagg wagged a finger, half-patronizing. "Do not belittle your gift, Lady Beyla. I have seen your bees in battle. They sting as well as any blade."

Thor leaned forward, his grin proud, his voice carrying across the hall. "Aye, remember when you commanded the swarm against the Raith? You turned the tide yourself. Saved us all that day. You are far more than you claim, Beyla." He raised his mead in salute and drained it.

Beyla chuckled, but her words came sly. "More than bees, or more than my future as your wife?"

Thor grimaced. The others erupted in laughter, breaking into a bawdy imitation of a wedding chant, banging their cups on the table in rhythm.

Thor waved them off with drunken bravado. "Enough! That day has not yet come-"

"And it may never," Beyla said quickly, her tone light, but hope flashed in her eyes.

Thor staggered closer, smirking as he bent toward her. "You would not have me, Beyla?"

She rolled her eyes, unamused. "We'd be at each other's throats every day. You're far too muscle and not enough mind for me." She patted his broad shoulder in mock pity. "A bit too brawny for my taste."

The table erupted in more laughter, Sif smirking behind her goblet.

Loki sat in shadow a few seats away, silent. His goblet barely touched, his expression unreadable. Yet every word - every jest about Thor, every mention of a wedding that had not yet come to pass - settled in his chest like lead.

⸻

Later, Beyla excused herself with a dramatic bow, her laughter mingling with theirs as she declared, "That is my show! Goodnight, Asgard!" Her skirts swished as she left, her heels clicking down the golden corridor.

She didn't make it far. The wine had settled warmly in her veins, and the heels betrayed her balance. With a huff, she leaned against the wall, fumbling with the straps.

Hands steadied her at the waist. A familiar voice murmured, amused: "Quite the performance, darling. Planning an encore?"

"Loki," she breathed, turning toward him with a tipsy grin. "Perhaps. Shall I grant you a backstage pass, Silver Tongue?"

His smirk was sharper than her wit but softer at the edges. Without ceremony, he swept her into his arms. "Then allow me to escort the star of the show to her chambers."

Beyla laughed, head lolling against his shoulder. Her fingers toyed with the strands of his dark hair. "Can I tell you something?" Her voice lowered, softer now, carrying a note of fragility.

"You are drunk," he teased, though his hold tightened.

"Yes," she admitted. "But that's not it."

In her chambers, he set her down gently, the fire already crackling warm against the stone. Loki lingered near the hearth, eyes roaming her space. "You keep it warm enough to roast me alive," he drawled, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile.

"Come here," Beyla said quickly, patting the silken bedspread. Her voice carried urgency, nerves.

Intrigued, Loki crossed to her and sat. "What is it, darling?"

"Closer."

He leaned in, their faces only inches apart, her breath brushing his cheek. His heart gave a traitorous leap.

Her voice was quiet but firm. "I don't want to marry Thor."

His eyes widened, though he kept his voice measured. "If he is to be king, it would be... unwise to refuse him."

Beyla groaned, dragging a pillow over her face. "No one listens! No one hears me!"

Carefully, he pulled the pillow away, his gaze steady. "I hear you."

Her eyes flicked to his, her pulse thrumming. "Then hear this: I will refuse him. I cannot marry where there is no love. Thor is my friend, nothing more. Your mother always told me to seek happiness as she had. And I have sought-" She broke off, breath catching, before whispering, "And found."

Loki's heart clenched, both hope and terror sparking at once. "You've found someone you... love?"

"Yes," she breathed, a small smile playing at her lips. "Though I think he's never known."

Loki swallowed hard. His voice was steady, though it cost him. "Then you must tell him. Show him. He is fortunate indeed." He turned his gaze toward the door, hiding the ache twisting in his chest.

Beyla studied him, nerves buzzing beneath her skin. Action, she thought. Before courage fades. If it went wrong, she could always blame the wine.

"Very well. Action it is."

Her hands framed his face, turning it back to hers. Before he could react, she pressed her lips to his.

For a heartbeat, Loki froze, every part of him stunned. Then the dam broke. He pulled her against him, one arm wrapping her waist, the other tangling in her hair. The kiss deepened, fire catching fast and consuming.

When she drew back, breathless, her smile was wicked and triumphant.

Loki's own laugh slipped free, rare and unguarded. He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing soft across her skin, and claimed her lips again - this time certain, this time lost.

And for the first time in his life, Loki believed in destiny.