Beyla - Loki

A Wedding in Frost

Beyla perched on the edge of a marble fountain in the gardens of Asgard, her gown pooling around her like spilled sunlight. Bees buzzed lazily between blooms, brushing her fingers as if they, too, sought her blessing. The garden was her refuge - quiet, fragrant, and safe from the storm that stirred within her.

Lately, the storm had been made bearable by secret meetings, by whispered laughter in shadowed alcoves and stolen kisses in moonlit corridors. Only Frigga knew of them, and though her support was unspoken, it was steady. She, of all Asgard, understood that love could not be forced into the neat boxes Odin demanded.

But tonight the storm had broken.

Loki strode into the garden, boots striking the golden tiles with enough force to echo off the marble walls. His anger clung to him like smoke. The moment he saw her, his steps faltered, his fury fighting with the sight of her - and losing.

"Loki?" Beyla stood quickly, concern softening her features. She reached for him, her fingertips tracing gentle lines along his cheek. "What troubles you?"

He caught her hands and lowered them, his grip firm but trembling. "Father has chosen. Thor will be crowned in three days' time." His voice was sharp, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

Her brow furrowed. "But why are you upset?"

"Because," he spat, pacing a half-step away, "Odin decrees that Thor will not sit the throne unless wed. He has accepted the betrothal for you. The choice has been made - without you."

The words struck her like a blow. Beyla staggered back, her breath leaving her in a rush. "No. No, I have the right to refuse!"

"You have no right in the eyes of the Allfather," Loki said bitterly.

Her voice rose, desperation edging her tone. "Then your mother must-she must speak for me!"

"She did," Loki replied, eyes dark. "He dismissed her before she spoke your name."

The hope bled from Beyla's face. She sank back onto the fountain's edge, her shoulders shaking. "There must be something you can do," she whispered. Her eyes lifted to him, brimming with plea. "Anything, Loki. Please."

He dropped to his knee before her, cradling her hands, kissing each knuckle as though they were vows upon his lips. "Beyla, my love," he swore, voice breaking with devotion, "I will do everything in my power to stop this farce. Thor does not deserve to call you Queen. If anyone does-" his gaze burned into hers, fierce and unyielding, "-it is I. We shall rule together. That I promise you."

Before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, the kiss searing, desperate, binding. When he pulled away, purpose gleamed in his eyes like fire. Without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving her trembling at the fountain's edge.

⸻

The days that followed blurred into unrest. Loki, simmering with fury, turned to mischief to soothe himself. In the great hall, he waved a hand and transformed a servant's goblet into a writhing mass of eels. The poor attendant shrieked, flinging the cup away, crimson wine splattering across marble.

Thor's voice thundered across the chamber. "Loki!"

Loki's smirk lingered as the illusion melted away. "Just a bit of fun."

Thor shook his head. "A waste of good wine."

"And those feathers?" Loki drawled, eyeing Thor's eagle-winged helm. "Truly majestic plumage."

Thor glowered, but amusement tugged at his mouth. "Do you wish to start this again, Cow?"

"I was being sincere," Loki replied, mock earnest.