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She's fair.
Loki will grant her that much, but it is a fairness bred of hard work, dewy mornings and good peasant stock. He can appreciate her pedestrian beauty and wholesome curves, might even have tarried - in times past - to sample her undoubtedly charming wares.
Still, his mother shows an uncharacteristic lack of foresight by showing him such a simple tableau, a throne, a grave, some object of great and terrible power... anything but what he fears must surely be a pretty picture removed from context and doubtless steeped in feigned emotion. She'd have better served him by showing him the means to shake off his fetters and rise once more.
Yes. The girl is fair, perhaps even lovely... if he deigns to extend himself. Which he doesn't. Not at the first - or even the fourth - viewing of Frigga's portentous trinket. What he sees is not to his taste and it is easy to thrust it away.
~*~
The second night he hungers for what is in the glass. Loki latches onto it seeking confirmation, nuances... anything that will elucidate what lies within. He watches greedily and silently wills the images to change, to be more. And, bizarrely, it is more. It is as if his mind has realigned.
This time the details build and he notes that the scene - maddeningly - bleeds into view just as she graces him with a knowingly arched brow, then turns away to look at their...
He isn't sure what he catches there, some mischief? Some lovers' jest bestowed upon a husband? He studies that single eyebrow for some time. It is imperious, dark, defined. It is pleasing and it, like her, is his.
He takes time to note the way that grass stains her knees, they way that unfettered hair tangles and sits oddly. Had he done that? Touched her? Ruffled her?
Perhaps the child had?
Something sharp and uncharitable settles in his gut when he considers that. Her total focus is now on the boy and he thinks it bitterly unfair that the boy can so wholly hold her attention before he has even shared air with her.
Of course he can hardly justify feeling trumped by his own unborn child (even if he does) so instead he invites the indignation that comes from watching his queen brought low and to her knees. She is still peasant fare, as women go, and he will need to see that undesirable trait trained from her. The girl may be common and lusty in his bed - yes, he likes that - but she will adopt a fitting demeanour and bearing before their issue.
~*~
The following night Loki fully recovers from his sojourn into idiocy and spends the evening recalling the lower castes of Àlfheimr, all one thousand seven hundred and sixteen of them.
Yet when he sleeps, he smells grass and woman.
~*~
Three days later he wakes positive that there is a smear of honey on the lush swell of her breast. In his mind he can see a sticky sheen on the inviting slope and the picnic that sits on the grass beyond them. At that time he knows two things: their son put it there and, when that day comes, he will remove it with his mouth.
~*~
The child is at the heart of it. He realises that far too slowly for his own comfort. Days follow with much contemplation of worlds made and unmade, of crowns and legacies. The child is a purpose and the girl a means to an end.
Oh, he will take her and be glad of it. Her appeal to him grows daily as a matter of course, but the child is what should most concern him.
The dark curls at his crown and the distinctive lines of the child's face are pleasing. The stubborn jut of his chin (so like Thor's) is an unsettling reminder that some affectations are learned and not bestowed by virtue of birth.
There's a moment of panic when he realises that once the boy has run to him he will surely disappoint. Perhaps he will fabricate a sweet or some toy to hold the child by his side for a moment, but even Loki is not so adept at deception that he can convince himself that the child will not grow weary of tricks and turn in time to his golden uncle.
Still, if the child is his (and can scarcely contest it while the boy boasts a visage so like his own) he would be remiss in not at least attempting to sway his favour.
... perhaps with a kingdom unparalleled in strength and stability?
~*~
Further contemplation leads him to believe that perhaps his future queen will also approve of the kingdom he alone could provide her. Jewels and fine fabrics would go a long way to hiding her undoubtedly humble origins. Something green, he thinks, maybe emeralds and silks that will dance over generous curves.
If this moment stolen from time is truly to be his and cannot be won through coercion, then perhaps it would be best if he bow to the will of the Norns.
Of course, that doesn't mean that he can't take steps to ensure a solid foundation for his future. He cannot fight fate, but he can seek to cushion its blow.
Loki stands and tugs neatly at the sleeves of his tunic as he calls for a guard. Footsteps draw close and he briefly fancies that he has the taste of honey on his tongue.