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The Realm Eternal is thrown into a state of unease following the sudden and indefinite postponement of Thor’s coronation.
Worry and fear are clearly visible on the faces of all—from the nobles to the servants, and even the common folk. Concerned glances and quiet murmurs fill the air as people openly discuss their fears for the safety of the realm. Many question how two Frost Giants—creatures of ancient menace—managed to slip past Heimdall’s ever-watchful gaze and infiltrate the palace vaults, where the Casket of Ancient Winters lies hidden.
Yes, the Destroyer has done its duty, and Odin has assured everyone that there’s nothing to fear. But still, an undercurrent of anxiety lingers, felt by all, no matter where one goes or whom one speaks to.
Yet for Y/N, it is not the breach of Asgard’s security that stirs this unease, but something far deeper and more troubling that weighs on her mind.
It’s the peculiar behavior of her husband, Loki, that weighs on her mind now.
An observation made in the quiet hours of the morning, when she had caught him smiling absently to himself, a soft, almost playful tune drifting from his lips as he ate his breakfast across from her. It struck Y/N as odd—she had never seen him so openly happy before. Since their marriage, Loki had always been distant, almost deliberately aloof, his features often hidden behind some mask of detachment, with only rare glimpses of vulnerability shared in moments that were few and far between.
As she watched him, absentmindedly spreading jam on his toast, Y/N thought that perhaps he was simply happy for Thor. It’s not every day that one’s older brother is crowned King, is it?
No.
But then again... isn’t this the same brother Loki has always envied, the one he’s often felt overshadowed by? Well, yes—but Y/N, ever wise and thoughtful, reminded herself that despite the jealousy that sometimes shadowed their relationship, the two brothers shared a deep bond, one built on love, even if complicated. She decided not to dwell on it too much—after all, family matters were not hers to untangle.
Instead, she simply enjoyed the sight of her husband’s rare cheerfulness, taking his strange behavior in stride without making much of it.
It has been hours since that morning—and as the sun begins to dip behind the distant mountains, Y/N finds herself once again disturbed, and this time, it’s much harder to brush off her husband’s strange behavior. Gone is the genial smile, replaced now by something much more unsettling.
Loki is moving quickly, too quickly—scuttling about his quarters, rummaging through drawers and papers with a frantic energy that sends an uncomfortable chill through her.
She hesitates outside the door, a gentle wave of worry spreading across her chest. Gathering her thoughts, she clears her throat softly, hoping to draw his attention without startling him. Loki freezes, a brief, subtle jolt of surprise that doesn’t go unnoticed by her keen eyes. She steps into the room, her voice gentle, though tinged with concern. “Your Highness, are you searching for something?”
“Has the time for dinner already come, Princess?” Loki asks smoothly, though there’s a noticeable pause before he answers. Y/N frowns, sensing that he is avoiding her question. “If it has, I would ask that you dine without me tonight. Thor requires my attention... There are matters that need my assistance.”
Y/N nods slowly, murmuring softly, “Very well,” though she doesn’t move to leave. She watches as Loki continues to rummage through his drawers, his brow furrowing in mild irritation as he turns to face her. “Yes, Princess? Is there something else you wish to say?”
“Uh, no,” she murmurs, taking a small, hesitant step back. She chides herself for her awkwardness. But before she can retreat fully, something about his frantic searching stirs her deeper. She steps forward again, her voice softer, but still full of warmth and concern. “What is it you are searching for so desperately, Your Highness? If you would tell me, perhaps I could help you find it.”
Her tone is gentle, but there’s a clear edge of worry in her words—she cannot shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.
Loki hesitates for a moment, his expression flickering before he shakes his head. “No, thank you. I believe you should dine and retire early, Princess. The day has proven rather taxing for you.”
“But has it not also been taxing for you?” she replies gently, taking another step into his chambers. As she does, she notices how pale he looks in the fading orange light of the sun. He’s been with the King and Crown Prince in the palace vaults for hours. She knows well enough how exhausting that must have been for him.
“Permit me to assist—”
“Ah, there it is,” Loki interrupts, his tone suddenly bright with relief. He strides swiftly toward one of the tables, a fleeting smile crossing his face as he retrieves a dagger nearly hidden beneath a thick pile of papers.
"Are you preparing to go somewhere, Your Highness?" The question slips from Y/N’s lips before she can stop it, her gaze fixed on the weapon in his grasp—a dagger that seems far too fine to be part of the everyday attire of a prince. Her eyes dart from the gleaming metal of the blade, to the clothes Loki wears—clearly unsuitable for an evening spent dining with family—then to the few other solemn-looking daggers laid across the table beside the window.
Y/N’s breath catches, and she barely manages to stifle the gasp that threatens to escape her.
Truth be told, she has always known this moment would come. Yes, she might have been a commoner before her marriage, always keeping herself at a distance from the affairs of nobility and royalty. Yes, she might have kept herself even further removed after becoming a princess of the realm—keeping to her duties, maintaining her place in the court. But she has never been so distant that she didn’t understand the reality of it all. She knew—has always known—that the wives of soldiers, nobles, and most importantly, royalty, are often required to send their husbands off to war.
She knows this, deep down. She has always known it. But she’s never allowed herself to acknowledge it, always leaving it to gather dust in the farthest corners of her mind—until now, when she can no longer avoid it. Now, she’s forced to face the truth of it: that her husband—whom she holds dear, even if not yet in the way of love—will soon be leaving, stepping onto the battlefields, away from her, into whatever danger awaits.
She tears her gaze away from the weapons, her eyes instead finding her husband’s. Loki is staring at her, a mild trepidation flickering beneath the sharpness of his gaze. He is watching her so keenly—almost as though he’s waiting for something. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with unspoken words. Trying her best to steady her breath, she asks, her voice trembling despite her efforts to remain composed, “Is the Allfather declaring war on Jotunheim, Your Highness?”
“Father—” Loki starts, then abruptly stops, his gaze darting away from hers. He exhales a sigh, one that sounds far too heavy, too laden with guilt for Y/N’s liking. “Not the Allfather, no.”
Not the Allfather? The words hang in the air, and for a moment, Y/N simply stands there, frozen. Her mind races, and the confusion that clouds her features lasts only a heartbeat before something much darker creeps in— realization . And with it, an icy grip of dread settles in her chest. She can’t bring herself to believe it, but the growing certainty gnaws at her.
“Please... tell me you and your brother haven’t made the decision to invade Jotunheim on your own,” she says—no, she pleads , the desperation in her voice seeping through despite her best efforts to remain calm. There is a sharpness to her words, disbelief lacing them as her heart pounds in her chest.
Loki’s gaze flicks to hers, but it is fleeting, as if he cannot bear to meet her eyes for long. He turns his back to her, the tension in the room thickening with his every movement. He strides toward the weapons again, and his voice is steady, though cold. “You should leave, Princess. It’s time for dinner, and you need to rest after the trials of the day.”
Normally, Y/N does not find it in herself to contradict her husband. First, because he rarely issues commands that she hasn’t already considered herself, and second, because she harbors no desire to argue with him—Loki, already burdened with enough opposition in his public life, is entitled to peace in the sanctity of their private one.
But now—now, Y/N does not think twice before disregarding his request, or directive, or whatever it may be. She steps further into his chambers, her movements deliberate yet heavy with concern, and with a voice that trembles despite her efforts, she addresses him, "Please, Your Highness, tell me you and Prince Thor shall be accompanied by an army—there will be soldiers going with you, will there not?"
Loki offers no answer.
And in that silence, Y/N hears more than she ever hoped to.
She stands still, the weight of the unspoken truth sinking within her like an anchor cast into unfathomable depths. Her heart tightens painfully within her chest. “This is madness,” she utters, her breath growing increasingly unsteady with each passing moment—until, at last, she ceases her futile attempts to steady her voice, a searing heat rising behind her eyelids. “You cannot possibly be contemplating an invasion of Jotunheim with naught but Prince Thor, Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three—this is madness. Do you hear me, Your Highness? This is madness—”
“And do you think I do not see it as such?”
Loki’s voice rings out—sharp, cutting, as if each word were a dagger, but not enough to pierce her through. Still, the sharpness in his tone strikes deeper than it ought, and it is the first time she has witnessed him lose his temper—directed at her, no less. The weight of the day’s events, combined with the tension of this moment and the knowledge that he will soon step into the jaws of certain death—or, at best, grievous injury—causes her composure to crack.
The first sob comes out muffled, but soon they come in waves—harder, more uncontrollable. She hunches over, shoulders trembling, the force of her fear sinking in. Her knees give way, and she collapses to the floor, the weight of her dread too much to bear. Her eyes, clenched shut in desperate resistance, cannot stop the flood of tears, hot and relentless, that stream down her face.
“Princess,” the word reaches her softly, a whisper almost, before it is repeated—this time accompanied by the quiet sound of approaching footsteps. Through the haze of her blurred vision, Y/N catches the faintest glimpse of two elegant boots halting at a small distance from her, before their owner crouches before her.
“There is no need for such distress, Princess,” Loki says, his voice gentler than she has ever heard it, though there is a certain awkwardness to the softness he now attempts. His words are hesitant, as if he is unsure how to comfort her, and it only makes Y/N's chest ache with sorrow, her sobs coming quicker, more frantic with each passing breath. She has never known such care from him, and the fact that it is being shown now—at the very moment he prepares to leave her—drives her panic to new heights. Her distress grows when she feels his hands, tentative and uncertain, settle upon her shoulders.
“You must not go, Your Highness,” she implores through her tears, wiping them away roughly as her voice cracks. She meets his gaze, not caring how pitiful she surely looks in this moment. "This mission—it is bound to fail. I do not want you to go, please—" The words tumble out in a broken plea, her fear evident, her heart gripped by the terrifying vision of what might come.
Loki studies her face for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing her words. With a soft sigh, he shakes his head, the movement small but resolute. “This is not a mission, Princess,” he replies, his tone weary yet attempting to soothe. “We go merely to seek answers from Laufey. That is all. Thor and the rest of us have no intentions of provoking war.”
Y/N’s brow furrows with frustration as her hands twist in her lap, her desperation growing with each passing second. “But your expedition is led by Prince Thor, and the one you seek is the King of the Jotnar,” she counters, her voice wavering, catching on the sobs that still shake her chest. Her eyes bore into his, a mixture of fear and pleading, her words sharp yet trembling, filled with an underlying plea for understanding. “One is driven more by his lust for battle than by reason, and the other has been Asgard’s bitterest enemy since time immemorial—particularly over the last thousand years. How can you be so certain there will be no war?”
“I—”
Loki falters, his words catching in his throat, and for a moment, he seems lost in the weight of her pleading gaze.
The tears that had begun to subside rise once more—threatening to spill over—before they are stilled by the loud call of Thor echoing down the corridor. Y/N watches as her husband shoots her a fleeting, guilt-ridden glance before rising to his feet and hastily making his way out of the room.
He returns scarcely a minute later, the shadows upon his face speaking volumes of the conversation that has passed between him and his brother. Were it another time, another place, Y/N might have felt the sting of her own sharp tone—but now, with her heart heavy and her thoughts clouded by dread, she cannot help but ask, her voice thick with emotion and barely stifled sobs, “So, you are leaving, then?”
“I am,” Loki responds with a sharp nod, his expression briefly softening with regret as he crouches before her, offering a green handkerchief embroidered with gold. “I must.”
“And here I thought you were the wiser of us both,” Y/N murmurs, her voice faltering as she takes the handkerchief, her hands trembling ever so slightly. She avoids his gaze, her eyes drifting to the darkening sky outside before they return to him, her heart weighed down with an overwhelming sorrow. “But please—if you must follow your reckless brother into the fray, then I beg of you, come back. Alive. Whole. Return to your parents, to your wife. I could not bear it otherwise, Your Highness.”
“And return to you all, alive and whole, I shall,” Loki promises, his voice steady, though a faint smile tugs at his lips. The expression is small, but enough to ease some of the tension in Y/N’s chest. She wipes away the moisture from her eyes with the handkerchief, trying to steady herself, when she feels the delicate pressure of his fingers closing around her wrist, pulling her hand down gently.
“Your Highness—” she begins, but falters, her words slipping away as her gaze locks with his, drawn into the weight of his stare.
Loki’s gaze is heavy, she realizes, almost suffocating in its intensity.
The silence between them stretches taut, but still, Y/N does not break it, though the quiet seems to press in on her chest, constricting with each passing moment.
As the tension becomes too much to bear, she tries once more, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “Your Highness—”
But before she can finish, Loki’s words cut through the air, soft yet resolute, a stark contrast to her uncertainty.
“I’m sorry,” he says simply.
“Wh—” she starts, confusion rising in her throat, but once again, Loki speaks before she can complete her question, his tone firm but gentle.
“Everything is well—will be well again, Princess,” he murmurs, his voice so earnest that it plants yet another, unfamiliar fear deep within her chest. Yet, she cannot identify the cause of this new apprehension—there is something in his tone, something in his gaze, that unsettles her more than she wishes to admit.
Loki’s hand rises, his fingers gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, lingering there for a brief, almost imperceptible moment. She suppresses a shudder, her breath hitching at the unexpected tenderness of the gesture—his apology follows, the sincerity in his expression so poignant that, for an instant, Y/N wonders if this truly is the same distant and aloof man she has known.
“I am aware that you are troubled,” he says, his expression taut with what seems to be genuine regret. “But rest assured, I shall rectify all of this in due course. I ask for your forgiveness, Princess. And I beg of you—do not inform Father or Mother of our departure, at least not until an hour has passed and we have yet to return. I can trust you, can I not, Princess?” He offers her a smile, one so fleetingly charming, as though trying to alleviate the tension in the air.
The nod Y/N gives requires no deliberation; she has always longed for Loki’s trust, and she will protect it—no matter the cost, come what may. However, this does not alter the fact that her agreement carries with it a certain degree of confusion—a perplexity that lingers in her gaze. Yet, as she observes him, she realizes that the uncertainty she feels holds no weight in her husband’s eyes.
Loki’s smile deepens, only to falter abruptly as Thor’s loud summons echoes once more down the hall. That is all that passes between them—before he aids her to her feet, his movements swift, as he hurries from the room. But not without casting one last lingering look at her, a silent farewell that hangs heavy in the air.
And though Y/N harbors no doubts concerning her husband's prowess on the battlefield, Y/N cannot help but feel a tremor of doubt stir within her. Her gaze drifts from the now-empty doorway to the velvet handkerchief she holds—her fingers tracing its golden trim as a single, poignant question rises in her heart:
Will Loki truly return from Jotunheim—alive, unscathed, and whole?
She hopes he will—
Y/N fervently hopes so.