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One of Loki’s best memories is a quiet, unassuming one. It’s also one that starts quite badly.
A fortnight before Loki’s tenth birthday, Frigga summons him and the court tailors to her quarters. Loki drags his feet the entire way there, apprehensive of a night spent poked and prodded, just for an outcome he won’t like anyway. As Loki trudges down the hallway, the torches on the wall fling his shadow across the floor in front of him. He wants to like what he sees - his silhouette, long and dark and formidable - but he doesn’t. It’s just a reminder of the ways his body has begun to betray itself.
When he sees his mother waiting for him at the end of the hall, he wants to hate her shadow, too. Her silhouette is soft, with none of the hard lines and angles of Loki’s. He knows her shadow by heart, whereas his own has become a stranger to him. Now, it dances in the firelight next to Frigga’s, as if to mock him.
His mother welcomes Loki into her arms. “Thank you for coming, skatten min. I know you did not want to,” she says, smoothing his hair away from his face. “It should not take very long.”
She leads him into her room. Adjacent to his parents’ main bedroom, Frigga’s quarters are a warm and comfortable space, contrasting the cold, severe interior that some ancient Asgardian royal insisted upon for the King’s master bedroom. A small four-post bed, a writing desk, and a lounge chair make up the majority of the room’s furnishings. Simple, but still luxurious, with the room and its contents having been crafted in the regal blue and silver tones which Frigga so often dresses herself in. A fire burns in the hearth, casting a ruddy glow across the room.
As Loki enters, he is greeted with a familiar tapestry hanging on one of the walls. It depicts the woven likenesses of Odin, Frigga, Thor, and Loki, fenced by arches and rings of intricate geometric patterns. Loki has spent hours investigating this tapestry, touching with wonder the individual threads joining together his family. Now, he looks away from it and recognizes the three royal tailors who have begun setting up privacy screens and laying out fabric samples.
Frigga walks over to the pieces of green and black fabric draped across the end of the bed, running her hand across their smooth surfaces. Loki trails after, his own hand following the imprints of hers. He silently observes as she makes various noises of approval and thought.
“This,” she says abruptly, her hand resting on a piece of dark green fabric. Loki reaches out to feel it; it’s soft under his fingers, like remarkably fine wool. “Do you have anything in this?” Frigga asks the tailors.
One of them, a short, broad man, nods quickly, and disappears behind a privacy screen. He returns quickly, holding a hanger with a tunic in the same green fabric on it. He brings it to Frigga, who takes it into her hands to inspect the garment, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and pointer finger.
Frigga hums. “Well, Loki,” she says, turning to him, “what do you think? This is for your celebration, after all.” She hands the tunic over to Loki, who holds it delicately. In his hands, the hem almost swishes against the floor.
Loki looks down at the tunic in his hands. He imitates Frigga’s gesture, feeling the texture between his fingers. He thinks it looks nice, if not incredibly similar to most of his court wear. It’s simple. He gives a small nod, looking up at his mother. She nods in return.
“Very well, let’s see it on, then,” she tells him, gently shooing Loki toward one of the privacy screens. “Off you go.”
Loki notices all three of the tailors immediately busying themselves in their chests and bags of clothing, though his mother simply sits herself down at her desk and folds her hands in her lap.
Loki sighs, and goes behind the screen. In the dark space, he disrobes quickly, leaving his day clothes in a pile. He then unbuttons the tunic and slips it on carefully, mindful of the small silver clasps and buttons. He reattaches everything, and smooths the tunic down over his front. There’s a long cheval mirror set up in the corner, and Loki moves closer to inspect his reflection.
While the fabric had felt soft before, it’s constricting and tight against Loki’s arms and chest. He’s unable to lift his arms very high, and he notices his wrists stick out from the cuffs just a little too much; he must have grown even more since his last fitting. Loki feels hot pricks of frustration on the back of his neck.
Loki notices a clasp at his waist which he missed, and he twists to reach it. As he does, the fabric at his chest strains against his skin, and the tight seams begin to pinch his shoulders. The sensation seems to overwhelm Loki’s entire body, and he freezes in place. Tears spring to his eyes. He feels the urge to thrash his arms about, wanting to shake the sensation off. He sinks to the ground and crouches, waving his hands frantically. A few tears roll down his cheeks. The whole of his body feels like it’s overheating beneath this horrible tunic, and he paws at his sides in a desperate gesture to remove it.
Loki continues to sit and shake until he realizes his mother has called his name. “Loki, vennen min?” she repeats. Loki attempts to quiet himself, still crouched on the ground. He catches a glimpse of himself in the bottom of the mirror, and realizes the silliness of his position. A wave of shame rolls over him, and he jerks his hands a few more times before wiping the tears from his face.
He’s just about to respond, but Frigga’s worried face suddenly appears from behind the other side of the screen. She has a hand up to her eyes, shielding her gaze from Loki.
“I’m sorry to intrude, vennen, but I just wanted to see if everything was alright?” Frigga asks. “Does the tunic not fit?”
The concern in her voice makes Loki burst into tears. Frigga quickly drops her hand and looks to her child. In a swift motion, she turns from Loki toward the tailors who must still be lingering in the room. Loki can hear her exchange quiet words of apology, and the sounds of them exiting.
Frigga turns back to Loki, and lowers herself to where he is curled on the floor. Tears are still flowing down his face, dripping onto the tunic, leaving dark green splotches across his chest. Frigga reaches out a hand to lightly wipe Loki’s cheeks and nose. He sniffs.
“Can you tell me what the matter is, Loki?” Frigga says, looking into Loki’s face. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor.
“I don’t like it,” Loki mumbles.
“The garment?” Frigga asks. “That’s quite alright, there are plenty more options-”
“I don’t like me in it,” Loki says, cutting her off. Frigga pauses, a small crease forming between her brows.
“Well, I think you look rather handsome. Rather like a prince,” she says.
Loki’s breath stutters in his chest. “But I don’t- mamma, I don’t want to look like a prince. I don’t want to feel handsome, and- and-” he gasps slightly, the words getting caught in his throat. “And I feel too- too long and like I’m stuck--” Loki falters. He lets out a cry of frustration.
Frigga shushes him and pulls him in, enveloping his shuddering frame with her arms. They stay like this for a moment, until Loki’s breaths begin to come more evenly.
“Loki,” Frigga begins, “shall we get you out of this tunic?” She rubs his arms soothingly. He sits for a second before making a small noise of assent. Frigga moves to stand, gently leading Loki up with her.
Once he’s up, Frigga starts to carefully undo the clasps of the tunic. The fabric begins to undrape from around Loki’s torso, and he complies as she guides his arms up, pulling the tunic off over his head. Once it’s removed, Loki stands awkwardly in his under garments. Frigga meticulously folds the tunic and places it onto a chair in the corner shielded by the screen.
Frigga turns to regard her child, a small, sad smile on her lips. “Much better, hm?”
Loki nods, avoiding his mother’s gaze.
“Would you like to look at the other garments now?”
Loki shrugs. Frigga looks at him for a moment, and exits from behind the privacy screen. Loki looks up and follows slowly. The fire has burned down since Loki disappeared behind the screen, but still fills the room with a steady warmth, which Loki is thankful for, being now mostly disrobed. He remembers his discarded pile of clothes behind the screen, but, figuring he’ll just be trying on more clothes, and instead, moves to stand closer to the fire. Frigga has begun picking through a small selection of pieces hanging on the outside of the screen and on the knobs of her dresser. Loki can see more garments similar to the one he tried - stiff shirts and kits, in varying shades of dark green - and he feels a frown tug at the corners of his mouth.
But, when the fire sputters momentarily in the hearth, Loki notices a gleam from a corner of the room, just beyond where Frigga is standing. As she continues surveying the clothing, Loki cocks his head to get a better look, but the shifting of the light makes it impossible to make out the source. He inches closer, his mother too preoccupied to notice, and he discovers a dress that must have fallen off of the bed. He picks it up carefully, struck by the lightness of it.
The dress feels different than anything Loki’s ever touched. It almost slips through his hands, and it feels remarkably cool on his skin, contrasting against the warm air. Loki looks closer and notices the complexities of its color; as it catches the light, he can see shades of both green and blue shifting across its surface. It reminds him of the resplendent peacocks he’s seen pecking around the courtyards.
“Loki?” Frigga says, pulling Loki from his concentration. “What is that in your hands?”
It is only now that Loki realizes what he is holding. He instinctively curls in on himself, clutching the dress to his chest. “It’s nothing,” he says, lamely. He knows that will not curb his mother’s attention.
He doesn’t turn around, but feels Frigga’s hands lightly touch his shoulders. “May I see, please?” she asks calmly, not an ounce of accusation or antagonism in her voice. Loki still hesitates, feeling pricks of shame one again needle the back of his neck. After a few seconds, he straightens, and shows the dress to Frigga.
To her credit, Frigga keeps her face almost entirely neutral as she takes in the dress. Loki is grateful that she doesn’t look at him, but rather keeps her eyes fixed on the fabric, just barely skimming her fingertips over it. The fabric is so fine that Loki can feel her fingers through the fabric.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” Frigga says, still looking at the dress in Loki’s hands. “It’s silk - no doubt sourced from Vanir traders - and very precious.” She finally raises her eyes, studying Loki’s face for a moment. She likely sees more than Loki is willing to show; fear, shame, and longing all coil together, heavy, in his chest. “Would you like to try it on?”
Loki’s head shoots up. He stares at his mother in cautious disbelief, and Frigga looks back at him calmly. The dress suddenly feels heavy in Loki’s hands, and he resists the urge to drop it onto the ground like it’s burning him. In actuality, he thinks he’d rather die than give it up.
Loki swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. Frigga gives him a small smile, and goes to sit down in the chair at her desk, in silent acceptance. Loki takes the dress and retreats behind the dark comfort of the privacy screen.
Here, Loki allows himself to breathe until the room ceases threatening to spin around him. He realizes he’s been gripping the fabric - silk - tightly, and tries to relax his hands. Away from the warm fire, the chill of the stone floor and walls reaches him, and Loki feels a shiver pass along his shoulders. He exhales, bunches up the dress, and lifts it over his head.
Shimmying it over his chest, Loki then fits his arms into the sleeves, and allows the rest of the garment to fall to his ankles. It slips on effortlessly, none of the difficult clasps and tight seams of the first outfit Loki tried on. The silk is light and airy atop his skin. Loki turns toward the mirror in the corner, but struggles to shift his gaze up to his reflection. He briefly closes his eyes, and attempts to steel himself. Then, he looks up.
In the mirror, an elegant creature with a scared expression looks back. Loki is surprised at how unsurprising his reflection is - he sees himself, but in a dress. But the dress is a thing of wonder; even in the semi-darkness, the silk is lustrous, almost emanating light, and it seems to change with every small movement. Loki thinks it could almost be made from his own magic, like it’s been woven from the tendrils of his bright, swirling spells.
The dress has a square neckline, and Loki thinks his neck and shoulders look less sharp under the soft fabric. Thin, golden thread has been embroidered around the neck in an intricate pattern, repeated along the sleeves and bottom hem. The waist has little shape, but rather the dress simply hangs down, disguising the lines of his torso and chest beneath. And, where the earlier garment had been ill-fitting, with his wrists sticking out awkwardly from the cuffs, Loki notes that the sleeves of the dress are almost bell-shaped; they flow out, concealing his wrists entirely in their depths. The entire impression is of ease, and comfort, and Loki finds himself wanting to cry, again, but for different reasons.
However, in the midst of his adoration, Loki notices that the bodice of the dress bunches slightly at his chest, in an excess of fabric. He feels his heart drop as he realizes it’s because his body does not fill it out - the dress is not made for him. His gaze moves up, and Loki sees himself more clearly; his face is the same, his hair is still cropped close to his head. He looked ridiculous, he decided. But he didn’t want to take off the dress.
Frigga calls to him from behind the screen. “Loki? Do you wish to show me the dress?” she asks, a note of worry surfacing in her voice.
Loki closes his eyes again, and breathes. He wonders what his father would say if he saw Loki in this dress. Odin already routinely expressed his displeasure with Loki’s tendencies, especially in comparison to Thor’s. Thor would never wear a dress, he probably never even wanted to. But, he would want Loki to, if that was Loki’s desire. Thor, despite all of Loki’s anger toward him, remained Loki’s strongest champion, oftentimes his only one, when it came to defending Loki to their father.
Loki, eyes still closed, feels himself frown. He decides to open his eyes, a chord of defiance striking through his body, and nervously steps out from behind the screen.
Frigga waits patiently on the other side, still seated at her desk. She greets Loki with an open expression. Loki moves closer, the hem of the dress swishing quietly against the floor as he goes. His heart is beating wildly against his chest, but he tries to school his face into something resembling confidence.
As Frigga surveys Loki in front of her, Loki stares fixedly at a point on the wall, trying to keep his knees from shaking. He sneaks a peek at her face, and sees a strange expression there, something between pity and pride. That small smile from before is back, the corners of her mouth ever so slightly tugging upward.
She stands up, pushing the chair back, and moves closer to where Loki is standing. He meets her eyes now, as she approaches.
“I think...” Frigga begins, and Loki fights the instinct to turn away from her, “I think you look lovely. Quite lovely,” she says. She moves to cup his cheek gently, her other hand smoothing his hair back. Loki leans into her hand, his throat feeling tight. “But, how do you like it? How do you feel?” she asks, tipping his chin up slightly to look at his face.
Loki tries to maintain eye contact, but feels his eyes well up with tears. His bottom lip wavers. “I like it, mamma, I do-” Tears begin to fall down Loki’s face. “But I look silly, don’t I? It doesn’t- it doesn’t fit,” he says, staring down at his feet. “I know it doesn’t.”
Frigga holds Loki’s face in her hands, wiping tears from his cheeks with her thumbs. “Loki,” she says, gazing at him intently, “the other garment did not fit, either. What is so different about this one? Is it not the job of a tailor to fix such things?”
“Well, it’s- it’s a dress,” Loki says, frustrated, “ and I can’t wear a dress because- because- ” he struggles to finish his sentence. “Because, what would pappa say?!” he cries.
Frigga shushes him, her thumbs rubbing circles soothingly on his cheek. “Do not think of your father, skatten min, he is not here. I want you to tell me, if you could have the dress altered, how would you feel?”
Loki hiccups. “I don’t- I’m not sure. I guess better.” He moves his arms back and forth slightly, the fabric of the sleeves whispering. “I would feel better, mamma.”
“Well,” Frigga says, moving her hands to brush Loki’s shoulders, and smooth the fabric down. “I suppose we have an answer, then, do we not? If it will make my child feel better, then it will be so.”
“But-” Loki starts, “can’t you just magick me to look different? I thought you could do anything with your magic!” he says indignantly.
Frigga pauses. After a long moment, she says, “Loki... vennen min, such changes must be your own,” she says. Another strange expression crosses Frigga’s face; she almost looks sad. “I will not change you myself. But, I can teach you the magic, if you wish to learn.”
Loki tries to hide how crushing her response is, but his face falls all the same. His tears have stopped, but he can still feel their wetness clinging to his lashes. “I just- I don’t want to look the same any more. I want to look different,” he says quietly.
“Very well,” Frigga says, “what about your hair?” she asks, caressing the side of his head. “Would you like to grow it long, like your brother’s?”
Loki frowns. “No, I don’t want Thor’s hair. I don’t want to look like a-” Loki pauses, unsure of what he wants to say. “I don’t want to look like him.”
Frigga nods. “I do not think you will look like your brother, Loki. You will simply look like you.”
Loki stares into her face worriedly. “Do you think?”
“Yes,” she says, “I do. In fact, I know you will. There is nobody like you, Loki, and there is nobody else you should be.”
Loki takes a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for a moment. He can feel the silk against his chest, but even now, it isn’t constricting. He exhales, and stands up straighter. Thoughts of his father haunt the outskirts of his mind, but he pushes them away, focusing on his mother in front of him.
“Okay, mamma," he says, and falls quiet, thinking. "But... I may keep the dress?” he asks. “Please?” he adds, in a small voice.
“Of course you may,” Frigga says. “Will you be wearing it to your celebration?”
Loki starts. “No!” he says quickly, then pulls back. “No, I don’t- I can’t-” Frigga stills him with her hands.
“Do not worry,” she says comfortingly, “that’s alright. We simply need to find something for you to wear, then.” With that, Frigga gives Loki one last reassuring look, and returns to the bed, where she’d left the remaining garments.
She considers them briefly, then pulls another tunic, and shows it to Loki. It’s similar to the first, still wool, it seems, but it’s lighter in color, like the color of moss. It’s also looser, Loki can tell even without trying it on, consisting of one or two panels of fabric, simply accentuated at the waist.
“How about this?” Frigga asks.
Loki thinks for a moment. “I think that should be okay,” he says. Frigga nods.
“Very well. I shall have this,” Frigga folds the tunic up in her hands, “and the dress, sent to your chambers tonight. Is that alright?”
Loki nods. “Yes,” he says, and he gives in to the overwhelming urge to hug his mother. He runs to her, and tucks his head into the folds of her dress. “Thank you, mamma. I’m sorry I cried and made the tailors leave,” he says, his voice muffled.
He can feel Frigga’s hand pet the back of his head. “It’s quite alright, skatten min,” she tells him. She falls silent for a second, and Loki stays there, enjoying the quietness in their embrace. “Loki,” she continues, “I want you to know how proud I am of you. I hope you know this. I do not... I do not wish for you to feel shame. Shame should never come from who you are, only what you do, if your deeds are bad. But you,” Frigga says, moving back to look at Loki, “you will never be shameful. Do you hear me?”
Loki hesitates under the weight of his mother’s sincerity. “Yes, mamma, I hear you,” he says.
Frigga gives another small smile, and leans forward to kiss the top of Loki’s head.
