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It was almost hilarious, Frigga thought as she watched her sons train with Sif and the Warriors Three, how Loki labored under the delusion that he could successfully hide his burgeoning relationship with Sif from his mother. (She was, after all, by far the more crafty and sneaky of his parents, and he would do well to remember just who it was who had taught him the art of illusions.) In just the short time that she had been observing while hidden in the shade, Frigga had seen no less than four furtive glances that Loki had thrown Sif’s way, another six from Sif herself in Loki’s direction, and three instances in which their gazes locked and the flush that began to spread across both of their cheeks before being ruthlessly quashed could not at all be blamed on their level of physical exertion. Norns bless them, Frigga chuckled to herself as she turned to head back to her chambers, they’re trying.
As she took a circuitous route through the palace, enjoying the cool breeze blowing through the open archways, in no hurry at all to return, she thought about discreetly letting slip to Loki that she knew about them and then, if Loki expressed surprise at her awareness, feigning offense at his belief that she was so obtuse that she could not draw the correct conclusions from her observations. She had not been able to miss the small, pleased smiles that, despite a surely monumental effort, he could not keep from his face as he slid into his spot at their less-formal supper table after an afternoon of ostensibly studying in the library. (Frigga well knew his ‘I’ve just figured out something rather clever’ smiles that he usually wore after a time spent deep in study, and those were more sly and mischievous, and they made Frigga inwardly groan as they usually preceded imminent chaos. These smiles, however, these were softer, sweeter. It was a subtle difference, but it was there if you knew where to look. They were often accompanied by the faintest of blushes, high on Loki’s cheeks, so that made them even easier for Frigga to spot.) She also could not miss the way his normally impeccable hair often appeared adorably mussed and disheveled these days, as if someone had been running their fingers through and he hadn’t had the heart to straighten it back up, lest he lose the sense memory of how it had felt. Or the way his fingers would twitch ever so slightly whenever he stood next to Sif, wanting to tangle with hers or brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear, but fighting the urge.
She had to give credit where it was due though. For all that it was glaringly obvious to her that Loki’s friendship with Sif had taken on an extra dimension in the recent months, he had managed to fool everyone else into believing that all was as it had ever been. (Although Frigga was quite sure that Sif’s own mother at least suspected something, if the speculative gaze Frigga had witnessed her casting upon the two as they had very carefully maintained a perfectly proper amount of distance between them—absolutely appropriate for “just two friends” of course—while dancing at the last feast was any indication. But mothers knew these things about their children, what they looked like as they were falling in love, so that prospect did not surprise Frigga.) Odin and Thor were definitely still in the dark, a fact for which, with regard to her husband, Frigga was grateful.
She was absolutely certain that Thor did not know because she knew her eldest son well, and she knew that he would be unable to contain his jubilation at the thought of his beloved brother and his other best friend finding some happiness together. Thor would be overjoyed for them and would undoubtedly make a powerful ally in the battle that was certain to ensue with Odin when he became the wiser. Odin would not approve, for ever since Sif had first been presented at court, he had desired that she one day wed Thor. “She would make a fine future queen of Asgard,” he had taken to saying with increasing frequency as the years went by, but he never seemed to notice (or maybe he consciously disregarded, although Frigga loathed to think so ill of her husband) how Thor resolutely ignored these proclamations and how Loki minutely, just-ever-so-obvious to ones who knew him well, flinched at them. Thor, for his part, had zero romantic interest in Sif. Clearly, to him, she was a fellow warrior, a comrade in arms, a dear friend. But she was not a lover. Frigga had no doubt that, if ordered to marry, they would find a way to attain some measure of happiness and peace in their union, but their hearts would always burn for others.
As Frigga finally entered her chambers, she sat down at her large desk by the window overlooking her gardens and cast her eyes over her collection of drawings and sweet notes saved from her sons’ younger years. She picked up a messy illustration Thor had done of Frigga and Odin and Loki and himself, nothing more than colored blobs distinguishable only by their relative sizes, Frigga’s long blond hair, and Loki’s dark, surrounded by hearts, and she contemplated her sons in love. Thor, having recently careened headlong into young adulthood from adolescence, had enthusiastically accepted the role of Asgard’s Most Eligible Young Male and seemed to fall in love with a new maiden every other week, constantly making eyes at Frigga’s ladies in waiting, turning heads as he strode through the streets of Asgard, flush with youthful vigor, a not-insignificant amount of brash arrogance, and life. He seemed more buoyant than ever when in love, if such a thing was possible, and when a lady accepted his favor and allowed his embraces, he glowed so brightly that he rivaled the sun.
Loki, though, as always, presented a far more muted face to the world, but the changes in him were no less obvious to his mother. Perhaps as the result of growing up with such a boisterous and vivacious older brother (coupled with a slightly distant father, one who just as easily doled out criticism and disapproval as he did praise and understanding), he had always seemed perpetually tense, as if he was constantly waiting for everything to come crashing down upon him. Loki had somehow always known that he was different from the rest of the family, from the rest of Asgard, even if the precise hows and whys and wherefores were as yet unknown to him (and here Frigga had to close her eyes and take a very deep, very controlled breath, for the withholding of Loki’s true heritage had long been a point of contention between herself and Odin), and she had watched him struggle with that knowledge for most of his life before he had finally seemed to settle on projecting cool disdain for all those who regarded him as lesser for his difference.
Her precious little moon, who held himself so aloof and remote from everyone save those he considered friend, so cold and seemingly uncaring to those who knew him only as the younger prince and who did not fully realize that the moon had its own importance or appreciate its unique beauty. A part of Frigga’s heart hurt for her son every time she saw him retreat behind his mask, because she knew it was a mask, that Loki’s depth of emotion was no less than Thor’s, that Loki felt things and felt them strongly, that Loki could love and love profoundly. At least Sif recognizes this, Frigga thought with a smile as she traced her fingers over a figurine Loki, in one of his earliest attempts to enchant objects, had modified to sing Vanir folk songs when she twisted the left arm three times and then set it on its head. Loki seemed calmer these days, less of a raw nerve, more comfortable in his own skin, just as likely to engage in mischief, because Loki was nothing if not mischievous, but mischief that was more playful and less malicious.
She briefly entertained the notion of encouraging Loki to allow her to subtly make his and Sif’s relationship known to the court, as the revelation that the dark prince (the courtiers did not think that Frigga knew of their little nickname that they had bestowed upon Loki, but she did, and oh, how it burned her that they did it mockingly, only to further highlight Loki’s disparity from the rest of the royal family and the vast majority of Asgard) and the shield maiden, held in such esteem by Odin Allfather himself, had found happiness with one another could possibly increase the favor with which they viewed him. But she dismissed that idea as quickly as it had come upon her, knowing that her intensely private son would want to keep this closely guarded. So much of his life was already available and open for public scrutiny; he wouldn’t want this, something that brought him such joy, to be fodder for gossip and unkind words.
Well, lucky for Loki, I am an excellent secret keeper, she thought as her smile turned sly, reminiscent of Loki’s own when he fancied himself to be particularly clever, just as Thor burst through the doors to her chambers to tell her of his latest Plan for Adventure and Great Daring.
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Four days later, Frigga and Loki sat amongst her gardens, lazily talking inter-realm politics as they often did to while away the afternoons. It was a warm day, and Loki, who had seemed distracted the entire time he had been out with her, trailed his fingers through a small reflecting pool before occasionally holding them above his face and grinning each time droplets of water fell upon him. For all that he could be so serious and grave and wise beyond his years, Loki could still be very much a child, as both this and the way in which he had positively devoured the entire tray of lemon cakes that she had brought out with her proved.
Frigga would have to have been blind not to notice how Loki’s eyes (when he wasn’t performing his water stunt) kept drifting over to the training yards, and because she highly doubted that Loki wished to go over there and practice for his own sake, she surmised that Sif must be over there, once more schooling those unfortunate souls who persisted in believing that a lady could not be as fierce and formidable a warrior as a man. She thought that Loki, who so often danced across the line between warrior and scholar, nearly-battle-ready sorcerer and sensitive-and-introspective poet, probably very much appreciated that Sif was well on her way to figuring out how to fit comfortably within the realms of both fighter and lady without sacrificing one for the other.
Finally, she could not stand Loki’s wandering eyes and waning attention for a single moment more and she chuckled lightly. “Go,” she said and swatted Loki’s knee when he languidly flopped his head over to stare at her for breaking off her discussion of the last time Karnilla had traveled to Asgard for a diplomatic visit. “Your heart and mind is elsewhere, my son.”
Loki narrowed his eyes suspiciously at your heart, but he said nothing beyond a murmured apology as he pushed himself to his knees. He walked to her in that manner, making her laugh at his ridiculousness, and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be in for dinner. We can further discuss Queen Karnilla then. I do so enjoy causing Thor some embarrassment.”
Frigga just rolled her eyes. She knew she should not encourage Loki in his self-appointed endeavor to deflate Thor’s ego a bit, but even she could not deny the humor in the story.
She waited until Loki had stood up and started to walk away before she pulled a slim book out from a small dimensional pocket of space. “Oh Loki,” she called softly, out of hearing of her ladies who were waiting a discreet distance away. “I thought you might like to have this.”
He took the book from her and ran his fingers reverently over the title. His favorite volume of Alfar poetry. He had long since memorized most of the poems within (many of which were among the most famous of the Alfar’s love poems), but she knew he enjoyed seeing the words anew, as if every time he did, the mental image that he concocted when he read each poem changed slightly and new details sprang to the forefront of his attention.
He looked so young and innocent in that moment, her precious moon, that she nearly leapt to her feet and crushed him to her in a warm embrace. A delighted smile slowly spread across his face, and before he could question her as to why she was giving him this gift, she added, almost idly, “Perhaps you might like to introduce Sif to them.”
She had the extreme satisfaction of seeing her silver-tongued son at a loss of words as his eyes snapped to hers and his jaw dropped open. “How . . . . What . . . . How did you . . . .” She knew he would later be irritated with himself over his utter inability to complete a question at this moment. He always had hated to be caught out in a state of incoherence. To Loki, being confronted with a wholly unexpected revelation was no excuse for losing one’s composure.
Frigga allowed her smile to turn full on devious as Loki continued to gape at her. “‘To become a master of illusion, one must first become a master of observation,’” she quoted, chuckling again as Loki unconsciously began mouthing the words of a well-known (and oft-repeated) sorcery text along with her. “Where do you think you learned your tricks, my darling?”