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There was something to be said when the Elders proclaimed the heir to the throne to be too Midgardian. Mainly, that it was bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. Father disapproved of that language, especially when applied to anything related to the Elders—something about how they merited respect as esteemed members of their society or whatever—but one had to call things by what they were. And the Elders' disgusted claims of assimilation were nothing but bullshit. That wasn't the true reason for their dislike. It was his parentage, and everyone in New Asgard knew it.
To this day, Magni couldn't decide exactly what about his mother bothered the Elders so much. Maybe the problem wasn't even his mother, but it was actually him and the thing about him being too Midgardian was just an excuse, a kindness veiling the true reason for their disapproval. If that was the case, the probability of getting a confession was near zero, for the Elders would never voice such a thought lest they anger Father, but that didn't stop Magni from reaching the conclusion on his own. After all, he could remember the first time the accusation was voiced in his presence as if it had happened yesterday.
He'd been chewing on his pencil, the action providing a pleasantly painful relief for his molars as he swung his legs back and forth, squirming in his seat as he tried to remember Mother's name. He used to have trouble remembering Father's too, but he'd heard enough King Thor 's by then to have the name well ingrained in his brain. Unlike his classmates, who still struggled to remember both their parents' name despite their excellent memory for anything else. Father was, after all, Father and Mother was Mother . They had other names, but those always seemed secondary, names only applicable when used by someone else.
"How does it feel?" the kid sitting next to him had leaned in to ask, his face glowing with genuine curiosity.
"How does what feel?" Magni had replied, his eyes sparkling with innocence, his cheeks chubby with baby fat.
"Knowing you killed your mommy?"
The duh had been heavily implied, as if Magni, at his tender age, should have known what a select group of people thought of his birth.
"I didn't kill my mommy," he'd said, more confused than anything else, that being the only emotion his limited understanding of the world and the circumstances surrounding his birth had allowed him to feel. "Daddy said Mommy had to go away to Valhalla. That's why Mommy isn't here."
"Yeah, because you killed him."
"That's not true." With tears welling up in his eyes, he'd glanced down at the blank space on his family tree where his mother's name should have been. "You don't know anything."
"That's not what my mommy said," the kid responded before returning his attention to his own family tree, leaving Magni sniffling like a crybaby that had to be picked up early less than thirty minutes later.
Anyway, ignoring that part where, yeah, he used to cry for a mother that could never come to his comfort, if a kid had already accused Magni of killing his mother, no matter that he'd been taught to think that, who was to say the Elders didn't think along the same lines? Magni had certainly thought about it from time to time, especially on his birthday, alternately known as the anniversary of his mother's death.
Father tried. Magni couldn't take that away from him, but it wasn't enough to hide the fact that, over a decade later, he was still mourning Magni's mother. His brother, according to Magni's history teacher, which Magni wouldn't otherwise known because no one spoke much about Mother around him unless it was at school, where it was unavoidable due to educational reasons.
That was one of the telltale signs. How Father never spoke of Mother unless Magni inquired about something specific that had aroused his curiosity (and how could Magni have thought to ask if his parents were brothers before he learnt it at school?), and that wasn't all that often. With what he already knew of Mother, Magni thought it was pointless to keep bothering Father, who always acquired this faraway look in his eyes when he spoke of Mother, growing colder and more distant with every word that passed his lips. Later at night, almost without fail, Magni would find Father caressing the side of the bed that had presumably belonged to Mother.
That was another thing. Father had what Magni believed to be an unhealthy attachment for the things that had once belonged to Mother. In fact, Magni also believed he knew more about Mother's cosmetic preferences than he did about anything else. He tended to feel guilty about it afterwards, but, whenever he saw the maid cleaning the vanity, he couldn't prevent himself from huffing at the absurdity before his eyes: a maid delicately placing every stupid container back in the exact same place where she found them. And yes. Magni had indeed memorized exactly where every stupid container was supposed to go because Father, having memorized it way before Magni did, sulked every time he found something even an inch off from its "proper" place. Now, Magni might have never met his mother, but Magni was damn sure that he, like any normal person, had just picked up the cosmetic, used it, and placed it back in the general direction he'd found it. All without a conscious thought.
But of course Father's obsession didn't end there, much less with the old, muddy, black boots eternally placed next to their front door. No, of course not. Their house had to have a sanctuary too. Previously known as "Loki's study," it was a sacred area of their house Father couldn't enter without collapsing on Mother's old chair, face hidden in his hands as muffled sobs wracked his body. This was a lesson Magni had learnt early in life.
Standing on tiptoe, he'd turned the doorknob of the only room he couldn't remember ever exploring, a room whose door was always closed. Cautiously, with the inherent feeling he wasn't supposed to be there, he'd threaded his way to the table and climbed on the chair, sneezing at the dust gathering on top of every piece of furniture in the room. He had wasted no time on the open books and sheets of paper strewn across the table, opting to instead scramble atop them, sending a few flying to the floor, as he reached for the shelf with the crystalline animals he'd spotted upon entering. Once in hand, he'd climbed back down to the floor and given each strange animal a noise of his own making.
It was minutes later, when his running nose had started to grow annoying, that Father found him crawling beneath the coffee table, his new toys glowing a faint, familiar green.
"Argh, Magni!" Father had called, startling him and causing him to hit his head on the roof of the coffee table with a solid thunk as he scrambled to retreat. "What are you doing in here?"
Rubbing the back of his head, Magni had begun to cry, shrieking when Father swooped him into his arms. In his surprise, he'd yanked up the knitted blanket he'd been dragging across the floor with him whilst his other hand dropped his toy, letting it crash to the floor, a million glittering crystals scattering beneath him, a puff of forest green smoke swirling up into the air.
"What do you have there?" Father had demanded, trying to wrestle the blanket out of Magni's hands. "Magni, give me that."
Sniffling and glaring, Magni had complied, and, indignant at not being comforted when he so obviously needed it, he'd wiped his nose with the back of his hand and rubbed off the snot on Father's shirt. Confused at the lack of reaction, however, Magni had glanced up into Father's face to see tears glistening in his eyes.
"Daddy?"
"He never finished this."
Leaning in to take a closer look at the blanket Father had been caressing so tenderly, Magni had half a mind to apologise for making Father cry, but before he'd had time to do so, Father had said, "Your mother was knitting this for you, before he was taken from us. It was supposed to be your baby blanket."
By then, "Mother" was just the black-haired man on Father's phone, so that knickknack of information went right over Magni's head. Instead, he'd been concerned with the fact that, although "your" had been involved in the sentence, the blanket had been taken away from him. So, the obvious move there had been to reach for the blanket, but Father had snatched it out of his grasp and guided them to sit on the chair. Magni, disgruntled with the whole situation, had leaned back against Father’s chest and pouted as Father ran a comforting hand up and down his arm.
“It began as a joke,” Father had explained to a question Magni had never asked, voice rough and wobbly. He had let out an ugly bark of humorless laughter and choked on it a few seconds later, dissolving into inconsolable sobs soon after. And in that peculiar way children had, Magni had sat with his Father in that dark, dusty room, his mind blank and thoughts clear, waiting for his father’s sobs to subside.
It had taken another four more visits to that forbidden room for Magni to begin making a connection, for him to start having a deeper understanding of “Mother,” but, even now, when Magni didn’t dare dart a glance in the direction of that room, he would occasionally find his father in there, the door wide open, almost as if in invitation. Once or twice, he had toddled in there to keep his father company, but, as the years passed and he began to resent Mother’s absence, envying the children who took their mothers for granted when he had never even had the chance to meet his, Magni found his bitterness directed at Father’s hoarding of Mother’s possessions. Case in point, his baby blanket. It was something Mother had been knitting for him, something that had been intended for him and for him only, and yet, to this day, Father refused to give it to him.
It was complicated, because then Magni would think, Well, at least he doesn’t blame me for Mother’s death , which was so wrong on so many levels. Father actually got mad when Magni showed the slightest sign of blaming himself, and, logically, Magni knew it wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t like they could ignore the fact that if Mother hadn’t gotten pregnant with him, then Mother would still be alive. And if Mother hadn’t died, then maybe Mother, alongside the Elders, would have won the debate about the need of finding another planet to settle, so Earth wouldn’t be their home and the Elders would be happy. Even better, the heir to the throne wouldn’t be too Midgardian or too argr or whatever knitting was supposed to make him. Honestly, it was all so stupid. Magni had learnt to knit so he could finish his baby blanket, and now Father wouldn’t give it to him?
But Magni was getting sidetracked.
Maybe the most obvious sign that Father was still mourning was his refusal to remarry despite the Elders’ adamant insistences that a marriage to a young, fertile Ásynja (because Magni was obviously not being considered as a worthy heir because, again, of his parentage and what it entailed. Like the argr stuff he had supposedly inherited from Mother) was only in New Asgard’s best interest, or at least that was what Magni was initially going to say, but, thinking back on it, it was the hoarding. Yeah, definitely the hoarding. Other than that, they were mostly good.
Magni wished his relationship with the Elders could also be “mostly good.” Obviously, there was no comparing Father to the Elders, but that was the general idea. And, assuming the Elders didn’t blame him for Mother’s death, which resulted in the loss of the biggest champion for finding another planet to settle and of the last person capable of passing down the ancient practice of seiðr (not that the Elders actually cared about the latter. That aside, Magni would like to point out that these were details he had also learnt from his history teacher, who had pointedly tried not to look in his direction when saying, “This all came to an end with the birth of Prince Magni, which brought upon the premature death of Queen Loki”), then, as initially stated, the Elders’ dislike could be traced back to Mother. Naturally, there were the facts that Mother was considered argr, that he was born Jötunn, and that he had committed multiple crimes that eventually resulted in the destruction of Asgard, intent notwithstanding. And, maybe due to Magni’s uncanny resemblance to his mother, it was only natural for the resentment the Elders had harboured for Mother to now extend to him. So, all that long explanation about Magni being too Midgardian was bullshit either way, especially considering that Father looked like a regular Midgardian hobo when not on official business.
See, although his coming of age was a couple centuries away, today was supposed to be the day when the Elders determined Magni to be mature enough to be present for council meetings (and God, had Magni been pushing himself to exhaustion in the training grounds to make them happy, because wasn’t that part of it?). It was a formality; it had no bearings on whether or not Magni would join them the following week, but it was always good to have the Elders’ public approval, or so Father claimed. Magni couldn’t see what difference it would make, for the people liked him well enough. The only problem was the Elders. They had been supposed to congratulate him on another year of his life, recognize his accomplishments, and nothing more. That was it. It should have been that simple. Instead, the chancellor had looked down his nose at Magni, scoffed as if Magni were truly beneath him, and proclaimed, “He’s too Midgardian.”
“I’m sorry?” Magni had replied, flabbergasted at the absurdity of those words. Even then, standing before a muttering crowd, one just as shocked as he, the word bullshit had been on the tip of his tongue, and Magni would have said it—he really would have—had it not been for Father’s hands on his shoulders, a clear warning that he was not to handle the situation. Because, alright, maybe Magni had a reputation for snapping at people (which had nothing to with the problem at hand), but so did Father, never mind his excuses about only losing his temper when Mother was brought into the conversation (another sign of his ongoing grief) because Magni could also make that very same claim. Wasn’t it stupid to ask about his opinion on his mother’s crimes and go as far as to show him clips of Mother’s invasion? Magni thought it was, especially because, off the record, he was tired of defending someone he had never met.
“I’m sorry,” Father had echoed, his voice slightly apologetic, though not enough for Magni to be indignant. “Could you explain what ‘too Midgardian’ means?”
“My king,” the man had replied, “have you not seen this new generation? Have you not taken notice of how our noble values are being lost?”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“This would have never been allowed to happen had we moved on to a different planet, perhaps to one whose creatures weren’t so short-lived, as the late, ah, queen so often suggested. It is a great shame, a great shame indeed, that he departed from us so prematurely.” Ignoring how Father had begun to vibrate with fury behind Magni (who had to make a monumental effort to suppress his blooming smirk, even though deep, deep in his mind he had thought, This is my fault. It’s because of me that Mother isn’t here ), the Elder had continued, “The prince is in sore need of a maternal figure, Your Majesty. A proper —”
“We are done here,” Father had barked, his fingers momentarily digging into Magni’s shoulders. “You forget your place, Chancellor. You would do well to remember it.”
With that final proclamation, Father had steered Magni away from the crowd and back to their house, though not before Magni had the sneering face of the chancellor recorded in his memory. That had sent a chill of pleasure coursing through Magni’s body, and, all in all, his birthday could have gone way worse. Like, sure, he hadn’t been in the mood to call any of his friends, had actually turned them away when they came knocking on his door, but, once he had gotten over what happened that morning, he and Father had spent the afternoon eating a family size ice cream tub and watching movies in the living room as was their tradition. So, yeah. All things considered, it had turned out to be a pretty good day. The night, however… Well, that brought Magni to the last thing on his list of signs that Father was still mourning.
Magni didn’t know if this was an arrangement Father made some year before Magni could remember, or if it had always been this way, but although the day was reserved for the celebration of Magni’s birth, the night belonged to the remembrance of Mother’s death. That was how it worked. Father was all smiles and hugs during the day but a drunken mourner once night fell. For the few years Magni had awoken during the night of his birthday, he could remember stumbling out on the hallway, leaning against the threshold leading to their living room, and watching Father sitting on the floor, beer bottles strewn all around him. Sometimes Father raved at the pictures of Mother, and other times he stared at them in silence. Sometimes Father cried the sobs Magni was so familiar with, and other times he recounted Magni’s development as if Mother was truly there to listen. Whatever the case, Magni always shuffled over to his father and flopped down beside him, leaning against him before promptly falling back asleep.
Yeah, he knew. Not the best companionship, but Father seemed to appreciate it anyway, so it all worked out for them. Hence, instead of going to the kitchen for a glass of water and returning to bed as planned, Magni, as tradition dictated, found himself walking over to his father and sitting next to him, carefully nudging the empty beer bottles out of the way.
Squinting, with the neck of a bottle pointing at a picture of Mother, Father said, “He would have been proud of you.”
Magni huffed out a laugh, knowing that, in this state, Father said the most interesting things when humored. “Yeah? What’s there to be proud of?”
In a moment of inebriated soberness, Father said, “Your mother would have been proud of you no matter what. Just for the sake of it. I swear this on my honour.”
Holding back a snicker at the solemn look on his father’s face, Magni asked, “Okay, but what if I were a murderer?”
“Simple,” Father replied, as if he were speaking a truth of the universe. “He would have either helped you get rid of the body, or he would have helped you commit the crime in the first place.”
See, had he been sober, Father would have replied with something like Don’t be stupid, Magni. You would never be a murderer.
“And what would you have done?”
“I would have been resigned, I think. But I would have been a happy man.” With a sigh, Father turned to look at a picture where he had his chin propped up on Mother’s shoulder, huge grins on both of their faces, both of their hands cupping Mother’s pregnant belly. And they looked so… so happy . No matter how hard Magni raked his brain for another word, there was no denying how both of his parents seemed to be buzzing with excitement at their new arrival, how blissfully unaware they both were of what would happen when that dearly awaited day finally came. It was so wrong. A feeling Magni could never quell when looking at that picture. The sheer wrongness of it. But Father obviously didn’t share his feelings, for him to keep that horrid picture out on display.
“It was your mother who named you. Did I ever tell you that?”
Magni’s eyes widened. “No, I always thought it was you. Isn’t that how it works?”
“Yes, traditionally,” Father replied flippantly. “But your mother would have never allowed it. He always commented on my terrible naming skills, whenever he got the chance.” Another sigh. “It was one of the last things he said. Your name. Magni. Strength. Whether he meant it as the strength that would get me through his third death, or as the strength that he knew you would one day possess, I know not. Perhaps he meant something else entirely.” Father paused, breathing deeply as he tried to get his emotions back under control. “You will be mighty one day, Magni. I know it.”
Yeah, well, the Elders didn't agree with that assessment.
Having refused to comment on that, there was a pause in which Magni thought his father had fallen back into a drunken stupor until Father spoke up. “Of course, if you wanted to be a fisherman or a librarian or something like that, I would be proud of that too.”
Magni threw a confused glance at his father. “What? Why would I want that?”
“Here,” Father said, handing him a newly opened bottle before raising his high in the air. “Fuck the Elders!” he proclaimed and took a long swing of his beer.
Even more confused yet amused by the whole ordeal, Magni followed suit with a happy shout of his own, bottle raised high. “Fuck the Elders!”
Although excited by this new development, Magni took a tentative swing of his beer. No sooner had the sharp, amber liquid hit his tongue when his face scrunched up with disgust. “How can you drink this?” he exclaimed.
Father laughed joyfully, and when presented with such unadulterated amusement, Magni had to wonder just what kind of face he was making.
“You’ll come to like it with time,” Father assured, though he frowned a second later. “But not too much, I hope.”
“Not a chance,” Magni replied decisively, even as he brought the bottle back up to his lips for another sip.
They fell back into a comfortable silence, both retreating into their own thoughts. Father went back to staring at his pictures, and Magni found himself following his gaze, coming face to face with that cruel picture of his parents again. Sometimes, when roaming the house in his quest for entertainment, Magni liked to fish their family album from one of Father's bedroom drawers and sit on the couch to thumb through its pages. More often than not, he found himself tracking his mother's pregnancy and all that vomit-inducing happiness that appeared etched on his parents' faces. It was so fucking stupid, and if anything, Mother seemed to have a healthier glow to his person with every passing picture (though, clearly, that couldn't have been the case), but Magni liked to imagine that he could see how he had sucked the life out of his mother as Mother's belly grew heavier and heavier with him.
It always got him how one moment almost every picture was of Mother and the next it was only him (him and his baby antics. Like, why did parents have to take pictures of their children naked? Sure, it looked cute or whatever, but it was pretty cringeworthy when you were the one in the picture). It never took Magni long to return to the time before his birth. To Mother's section. To the green eyes, the black hair, and the sharp features that were so like his own. The eerie similarity couldn't be appreciated in Magni's baby pictures, but it began to stick out like a sore thumb in the most recent photos of him. It was like Father had exchanged Mother for a younger, newer version of him, which brought Magni to questions he wished he could ask his father yet knew he never could.
If you had known Mother wouldn't make it, would you have still chosen to have me? Do you think Mother would have?
It would be cruel, Magni knew, to ask that of his father. To ask him to choose. Had he been asked to choose, when it became apparent that it was either Mother or Magni?
Magni didn't know what he wanted the answers to be.