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Svanhild, daughter of Gudrun and Sigurd, had not worked at the royal palace for long. The position of maid to the two young princes, and in complete charge of their care when the Queen was otherwise engaged, paid a generous wage, and came with bed and board provided. Svanhild had no natural rapport with children, nor any particular interest in them, but the opportunity had been too pressing to pass up, as had the truth behind her mother’s assertion of what an honour it would one day be, to say she'd played such a vital role in the nurturing of the King.
To give them their due, the princes were easily-enough corralled; the younger in particular, who, above all else, enjoyed reading, even if he did peer rather haughtily over the pages, were he ever offered the chance to be read to. The young Prince Thor was another matter, for it was trial enough to keep him sitting still, let alone to focus on something that might allow Svanhild a moment to turn her back. To read a book of her own, perhaps, or drop in on Ansgar, who tended the palace gardens.
Prince Loki, despite their differences, idolized his older brother in a way that was both endearing, and painful, to witness. What was not immediately clear, though no less true, was that Thor adored Loki just as much in return. The two were forever in cahoots over one thing or other, heads bent close in a corner of the playroom, sharing whispers of schemes they would abruptly cease whenever Svanhild came near. Svanhild, who had no real affection for any of her four siblings, neither appreciated, nor trusted, their whisperings; particularly since, despite his firm position as ‘Ringleader’, Svanhild suspected Prince Thor was not the one doing the lion's share of the scheming. Then again, perhaps that was always the way of it. Great Kings, children or no, often made better executioners than they made architects.
Svanhild had left both Princes in the playroom, and a rather innocent game of backgammon, and was making her way back from the gardens, when she first heard it: a high, panicked tone, and the slap of urgent feet upon marble.
“Get help!”
Svanhild watched, frozen, as the elder Prince appeared from around the bend in the corridor ahead; watched as he locked terrified eyes with her own, and offered up the crumpled figure of Loki, slumped in his brother’s arms.
“Svanhild!” Prince Thor was almost bent double under his brother’s weight; there was as little between them in height as in age. “Get help! It's Loki! He's dying!”
Precisely what was ailing the younger Prince, and what, exactly, the future King thought she could do to save his brother from what must've been the world’s deadliest game of backgammon, Svanhild did not know. What occurred, instead, was to scream. The terror ripped free from her and fled, drowning out the sound of Thor’s panic with a very convincing display of her own.
She ran to them, tripping over her own skirts in the process, but felt no pain at all as she went down, scrambling up only as long as it took her to reach the boys, and fall once more to her knees beside them. Prince Loki’s eyes were lidded, his jaw hanging ghoulishly open, tongue lolling like a great slug behind his teeth. Silent now, shock no doubt setting in, Thor released his brother, and Loki collapsed as if Thor alone had supported his weight. The Gods alone knew how he'd had strength enough to move his legs -- the boy was a dead weight, flopped down on top of Svanhild, whose screams redoubled when she realised this was the feeling she'd always remember. That of being trapped beneath a still-warm corpse for hours before help could be reached.
Frantic, she fought with both elbows, for freedom, succeeding only in lifting her own head, in time for Prince Loki to roll, with no control over his own momentum, until he was face down across her knees. Svanhild could see sweat beaded on the back of the Prince’s neck; was it possible, truly, that he could appear even paler than usual, beneath the soft palace lighting?
Gods and fathers, what would she tell the Queen? What would be the Allfather’s retribution, when he discovered his second-born son had perished when she, Svanhild, had been dallying in the gardens, with a gentleman caller? Fear of another flavour swept over her, crested, and drew a flurry of sobbing from her chest as she tried to tug Prince Loki over onto his back. He would not be moved; Svanhild beat upon his back with her fists and hollered for help herself, but found that she was not heard. The residential wing was deserted but for Svanhild and the Princes; the nursemaid and her charges, Thor and Loki, Loki, Loki…
Beneath her hands, Loki began suddenly to shudder. Svanhild had never heard a death rattle before, but knew with a Gods-sent certainty it was what she was hearing now. The elder Prince had begun crying too; Svanhild heard him from beyond her own anguish, little, gulping sounds of distress it sounded as though he were trying to swallow. Loki choked, body twisting in her lap, and though she had tried to turn him before, Svanhild found herself dreading the inevitability of seeing a dead boy’s face staring up from her knees.
He forced her hand. Loki rolled once more, bowled over by the force of a phenomenal bodily jerk. He lay on his back before her, chin tilted, eyes screwed tight, mouth stretched open…
Laughing uncontrollably.
Everything stopped. The world filtered back in from the edges of Svanhild’s vision, scream dying in her throat. Prince Thor was bent double, cheeks as red as his coat; he'd choked around the last of his composure the minute Svanhild had tripped on her skirts, and he bestowed the fruits of that struggle now upon his brother — a fitting reward for such a ingenious performance, laughter and thunderous applause.
Loki, still prostrate, turned eyes wet with mirth up at his nursemaid, face split in a wild grin.
Svanhild, fresh out of screams, sobbed instead.
**
“I suppose you think that was rather clever.”
Prince Thor, Odinson, firstborn and heir to the throne of Asgard, future ruler of the Nine Realms, stood at Loki’s side before their Mother, and thought, very deeply, about answering ‘actually, yes.’ Perhaps fortunately for the boys, Frigga did not wait more than a few seconds for a reply.
“Five nursemaids.” Her voice bore an edge both boys felt, rather than heard. In their shared experience, it was not precisely easy to earn their Mother’s wrath, but when you did, it was best to take cover. “You two have run off five nursemaids with this nonsense.”
“It's not nonsense!” The exclamation broke forth from Thor, in that way children have of holding in words only until they feel they're about to literally explode. “Mother, it's a game!”
“It’s a game.” Loki echoed his brother with a fervent nod.
“It is nonsense,” said Frigga, spiritedly. “Twisted, childish nonsense I believed was beneath you both. It seems I was wrong.”
Loki’s resolve wavered slightly. He enjoyed being in Frigga’s bad books about as much as Frigga enjoyed seeing having there, and it was perhaps the passing of shame across her younger son’s face that eased a softness into her next words. An almost imperceptible softness, but softness nonetheless.
“Much as it delights me to see the two of you united, this cannot, and will not continue. Am I being at all unclear?”
“No, Mother.” They spoke, not quite, in unison, Thor a beat or so behind.
“You will write to the Lady Svanhild personally, and apologise.”
“Yes, Mother.” (Read: Loki would write for them both, and Frigga knew it, but did not press the issue further.)
“You will find altogether less destructive and terrible ways to spend time together,” Frigga continued, “and if you will play at fools, you will do so in ways that are actually amusing, and not reckless, dangerous, or liable to cause harm.”
“‘Get Help’ is amusing,” murmured Thor, less petulantly than he might, for the image of Svanhild skidding on her dress had arisen again in both his, and Loki’s, minds, and it became suddenly rather hard to maintain the impression of decorum.
“My son,” said Frigga carefully, “this was not amusing.” She fixed her gaze on both Princes in turn. Her boys, so disparate, but for the way mischief appeared on them both. “Let me make that expressly clear.” She bent a little at the waist; far from diminishing her presence with decreasing height, they felt het her gaze yet more intently when she reached eye level with them both. “This was not amusing. This has never been, and will never be, amusing.”
There followed a beat of silence. Loki, preparing to nod his agreement, looked to Thor for his, and was met instead by his brother’s shit-eating grin. It spread over him like a rash, one he could not dampen, nor hide, as he turned both barrels upon their Mother.
“You only say that,” Thor told Frigga, “because you fell for it yourself, once.”
Frigga blinked. Loki watched. Thor… grinned. One corner of their Mother’s mouth twitched; Loki’s sharp gaze caught a line of tension as it bloomed across her forehead.
“That,” said Frigga, at long last, “is neither here, nor there.” She straightened. “Two letters, boys. Remember that I know each of your hands individually,” she added. “You will both wash for supper, and afterwards, you-” she addressed Thor, “-will provide an audience for your Father. He requires you to come combat-ready.”
“And me, Mother?” Loki asked, eager as could be. “You,” Frigga told him, “will attend my rooms, for a lesson of your own.”
Loki knew something of his Mother’s skills; it was hard indeed for Frigga to resist the way her son’s eyes gleamed, the promise of magic, quite literally, at his fingertips. It would not occur to her until later that she had perhaps rewarded him for what was, at best, mildly appalling behaviour. Then again, acting was, first and foremost, an illusion; tricks, another branch of the same tree. Frigga intended to do Loki one better than ‘Get Help’, and perhaps he would learn a more genteel hand with his abilities.
“Go now, both of you. What was that?” And the boys scrambled through the doorway at the end of the hall, before Frigga could demand Loki repeat what had sounded a great deal like ‘next time, it’s your turn to be dying.’
FIN