Thor Fic: "The Tale of Winter's Daughter" (Original Character, Loki/Darcy, PG-13), 2b/2
LINK TO BEGINNING OF CHAPTER
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Returning to Asgard feels more strange than it is a relief. Of course the path was inevitable; she hardly expected she would stay at Cranewood forever. But for Asgard’s familiarity it does not seem entirely welcoming to her. Not anymore.
She sleeps in her bed and eats with her family and walks through the same rooms she’s known ever since she was too small to fully remember. She’s surrounded by her things and everywhere she goes are the same sights and sounds and smells that once every day pleased and reassured her.
And everything is quiet, too quiet, and tense. Life seems static, and frozen, with no real joy or willingness behind it. As if she’s only going through the motions out of habit. As if her whole life has been cast in glass, and now everyone’s just waiting for it to shatter.
When she thinks of home the Asgard in her memories is peaceful and easygoing. An idyllic place, where Skadi was free to do as she pleased, and ignore whatever she wanted about her surroundings.
This place isn’t that ‘home’ any longer. Things have changed.
Everywhere she goes, she knows she is being watched, and not so kindly. People whisper about her, snide, and wondering.
She is half-Jotun; an unknown quality. Out of all her siblings she was the first unmasked and the only one to show any Frost Giant powers, and somehow, that makes her the one they are the most concerned with. They are trying to take her measure. Trying to figure out what she will do, what this new knowledge of her heritage means.
Skadi can feel them looking hard, searching for the cracks, waiting for her to show them some glimpse of the monster.
Though this new scrutiny affects them all and they are not held in as high regard as they once were, her family behaves as though the months that passed gave them time to recover. They are happy and careless with one another, and Skadi pretends she feels the same. Pretends that her time away soothed over her feelings and she is back to being as she once was. As if she has forgotten to be angry.
But she has not. Oh no, she has not.
Her family presents a picture of unity. When they are still too young to choose for themselves, their mother had the conceit to dress them always in shades of green. Now older, Fandra often prefers pinks and purples, and Wyclef usually goes about in solid black. But Skadi has never until now rejected the ‘family colors’.
Now she refuses to be seen in them. She digs through her closet and tosses all greens and golds aside, leaving them in a wrinkled sad heap on the floor: rejected, cast off.
There’s no plan in it but she finds herself gravitating to blue. Icy shades or bright royal ones. Wyclef’s darkness blends in, Fandra’s dusky velvet compliments rather than jars, but Skadi’s attire visibly clashes with her family. It’s as if she holds herself apart from them, always standing one step back.
She will not speak to her father. She won’t sit next to him, she won’t stand near him, and if possible leaves whenever he enters a room.
When forced to she addresses him coldly. And she wills him to see all her contempt and disdain, whenever he looks into her eyes.
He makes no act to hide that such rejection makes him miserable. She takes no pains to hide that such misery leaves her unmoved.
He is too shamed by her anger to respond with anger in kind. He will not demand or beg her forgiveness, and she has sworn to herself he will never have it from her anyway. By now her hatred has turned inward, sour but seething, and formed itself into conviction.
She’s no way to vent her growing restlessness, her sense of wronged frustration. She has yet to return to the training grounds, uncertain what she might find there waiting for her. Aunt Sif she knows will not reject her, but the other recruits…
She hangs back rather than dare to find the answer. Sparring has always been her outlet, her place where she is happiest and freest and most herself. She is eaten up with the dread of that spoiled.
The rest of the family watches her from the corner of their eyes, silent and misgiving. Skadi feels sure she knows whose side all of them are on. Well, she won’t hear it.
If she’s the only one who can see Father for the coward that he is, if she must stand alone, then so be it.
There is one single seeming outlet, though, and that is Skadi’s grandfather. He says nothing on the subject, less than the others, if possible. But his gaze lingers on her sometimes as his fingers tug at his beard, thoughtful. And she sees sympathy in the lines of his well-worn face.
Beloved Grandfather, who cheers on her accomplishments and hails them as solemnly as if she were a queen. Who was ever there with a lap for her to sit in, a tiny present snuck into her little hand, a fond twinkle in his eye. Who watches her fight and cry ‘for Asgard!’ and smiles over her so proudly.
Of course he would care for her feelings throughout this. Of course he would understand.
One afternoon Skadi returns to her chamber to find someone has snuck a gift in for her. Unwrapped, two objects lay on the bed side by side.
The first is a battle mask, not unlike what she wore that fateful day, but this one has obviously been made for her. It fits the lines of her face perfectly and when strapped into place covers everything but her hair. Its shape is that of a wolf’s, beaten and molded with artisan’s skill from fine silver, the snout curving over the length of her chin, two ears atop almost like proud horns, a fierce and flawless visage through which she can peer with canny eyes.
The second is a weapon, a long staff that ends in a blade almost more like a knife than a spear’s, wicked and thick and curving to one side. Hand-carved with patterns and bone-white, it is no practice weapon. This is equipment for a true and full-fledged warrior.
Skadi is thrilled with the presents and delights over both of them. There is no note, but it was hardly necessary. Surely these must be from her grandfather. Knowing she longs to return to the training grounds he had them made and sent to bolster her. He wanted to encourage her warrior’s spirit and flagging sense of identity.
Heeding his wishes Skadi straps them on right away and heads out in search of practice, heart pounding in anticipation.
She finds some young acolytes gathered out at the training fields underneath watchful eyes of their instructors. The sun is bright, the winds still and low as staves and dulled blades lower silently. Leather armor creaks as heads turn to look at her.
As she closes the distance she waits for somebody to speak. But nobody does. Their faces are blank - and perhaps, she thinks, a bit nervous. Though too little to guess exactly nervous of what.
Skadi swears though, that they won’t see her be nervous in reply. You will not see my doubt. She swallows and forces a smile. Lifts her chin a bit as she holds head up high.
“I’ve come to spar. I’m sorely out of practice,” she announces, cool as one pleases. “Will anyone be my partner?”
There’s hesitance. Glances are exchanged. Skadi looks expectantly from one face to another.
One of the instructors finally clears his throat. He points. “You there,” he gestures gruffly, “and you. And you. You can take turns indulging the princess.”
She nods her thanks, as the first lad steps forward, ducking his gaze. Skadi takes up her position and slips into a stance, spear raised. Across at the other side of the well-worn stone circle the youth that’s to be her opponent mirrors her.
There’s no command to start but there doesn’t have to be. They are well versed in this.
There is a moment, just a moment, of stiff tension before it begins. Those few seconds of glorious anticipation just before a fight, full of potential and excitement: a young warrior’s favorite time.
In that space, the young man lifts his head and looks straight at Skadi. His eyes flash, his mouth curls in a sneer.
It’s not disgust but derision. Dismissiveness. ‘You will never belong here. Try, try as you might, you don’t fool us. You might be the best warrior but you will never be of Asgard.’
Skadi’s face falls. Her heart thuds once, hard, inside her throat. Then she steels her gaze again and smoothly, with one hand, reaches to slip her mask down from where she was wearing it back over her hair, to fully cover her expression.
They will not see her doubt. They will not see anything. It’s not for them to see.
The bout begins. The youth makes the mistake of starting too slow, of underestimating her. He goes to knock Skadi back and she leaps out of the way easily, and then hits him hard before he can recover. The air whistles and rends in a sharp thwack as she strikes him once, twice, three times, each blow bruising and harder than necessary. The lad tumbles backward and lands on the ground outside the ring, wincing.
No one steps in quickly to take his place, as they give Skadi a look that’s now much more wary.
“Well go on then,” the instructor snaps, though there’s a tension in his voice. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
The two trade a look, the one closer starting to move as they seem to come to their decision. But Skadi doesn’t wait on him. Before he can slip into a ready posture she strikes, bringing the side of her spear against his chest, the length gripped apart between both her fists.
Her victim makes a noise of irate protest - she gives no quarter, but shifts her footwork and goes in for another attack. He barely blocks her, and then both he and the second trainee lunge for her at once, instead of waiting.
She looks back over her shoulder, spear lifted and braced for an overhead strike. They are circling her, one heading for her back while the other remains at her front. They mean to harry her by pinning her between them. A wise tactic.
But pride notwithstanding Skadi really is a much better fighter than most of the beginners. She sees the weaknesses in their forms, moves faster than they can prepare for. She slashes one in the leg; the other gets a spear butt across the forehead. Both reel back, injured, complaining.
She assaults them again. There’s a swift kick to a kneecap, an unflinching punch to a stomach. She swings her head forward, bashing a skull as temple meets with her mask. The first opponent she knocked down is now back on his feet and rushes to avenge himself by joining the others, and all three attempt at her at once. The fight is no longer a sparring match but a wild thing, a brawl.
Skadi gives into her instinct, her reflex, and moves without thinking. She is all vicious attack and untouchable defense. The blood is a steady encouraging chant in her ears as she pours her strength into every muscle, determined to show them her might.
The anger compressed inside pours out of her and guides her as she strikes. Those fighting her flail about desperately, trying to stop her, trying to escape her reach but she keeps on coming, unrelenting, driven on by the cold fire within her.
Attack, attack, attack - she will not stop, not until they’ve all been knocked down. Until no one stands left who dares to face her. Until they’ve paid for dismissing her, for disrespecting her, until she’s shown them all. Until she destroys them all, rips every last one of them into pieces-
“Enough!” a voice roars, and as Skadi is brought to reality, Sif stands between her and the others, a forearm braced against each side, violently shoving Skadi away.
Skadi stumbles back, reels, concentration shattered but keeps her footing. She is breathing heavily as her chest rises and falls, soaked in a cold sweat she doesn’t remember the beginnings of. Her heart still races as she lifts her mask to stare back at Sif wildly.
Sif’s mouth is a line, her lips pale, twisting as if with something bitter. But her eyes are hard and undeniable.
“Go,” she commands, voice loud and furious. “Leave and don’t come back. You’re barred from any practice here, until you can get yourself under control!”
Skadi stares in bewilderment. A sharp taste hits her; she lifts knuckle to her mouth and brings it away smeared red, and realizes her lower lip is bleeding. But none struck her - in the intensity of her battle fury she bit down without even feeling.
She gapes at Lady Sif, wanting to protest but nothing comes. This is a woman she was raised to call ‘Aunt’, one of the bravest warriors Asgard has ever known. And she’s looking at her like…
Skadi spins, stomach twisting, and hurries herself away.
Back in her room she wrenches the mask from around her neck and tosses it away with a clatter. The spear falls from her grasp to the floor. Her heart still pounds, hands shaking.
She’s always enjoyed a good fight, the act of battle making her feel alive, bringing a heat to her blood. But what has just happened - it’s never been like this before.
She would’ve killed her opponents if left unchecked, she knows she would have. She wanted to.
She feels awash in shame for one full moment before it’s suddenly shoved aside. She remembers the reason why she is what she is, the reason why this is happening to her. The anger comes again, rapid and consuming. Her teeth bare as she lets loose a guttural howl.
Going to the mirror she looks at her pale skin, her sharp face, bright green eyes that stare out from beneath thick black tresses.
Casting about she snatches up a knife.
Seizing one fistful at a time she saws through her hair, chopping it off. Until nothing’s left but scraggly locks shorn close to her skull.
When she’s finished she stands in uncertainty, chest heaving. Taking a few dizzy steps she turns about, grasping at her temple, not knowing what to do next.
A voice says her name: “Skadi.”
She spins to face it and almost screams, thinking at first her father stands there in the door. But the face is too young, too thin. Her brother Wyclef raises a quizzing eyebrow at her, almost mockingly.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Who said you could come in here?” Skadi snaps back. “Get out of my room! Get out of here!” She lunges at him, shrieking, fists thrashing. “Get away from me!”
Wyclef manages to brace himself and with a grunt shoves her back. As she goes flying she feels the dancing tickle of his magic reaching out to her - she hits her bed and lands back on her mattress, and when she lifts her head again her hair once more hangs long about her face, untouched.
“How dare you,” she gasps out, tugging at it, incensed he’d do anything to her without her permission. “Don’t use your powers on me!”
“How do you think Mom would’ve reacted, once she’d seen what you’d done?” he retorts. “What else would you do, I wonder - did you plan next to carve out your eyes, because they also look like Father’s?”
She scrambles to her feet, using her hands, huffing. “Don’t talk to me like you have any idea. Have you no sense of pride?”
“What, because I’m not cross with him too?” He scoffs, arms folded, leaning against her door with one foot raised. “You’re acting like a child. No - like a madwoman. And to think you lay claim to being the reasonable one.”
Skadi hurls a pillow, then a vase in his direction. “If you’re not going to say anything useful, then get out of my sight!”
Wyclef obeys her silently and goes, but not without giving her one last superior, disdainful look.
She stares after him in the wake of his departure, hopeless and numb and desperately angry. She doesn’t understand how he can do it. How he goes on like nothing’s changed about him, still as self-assured and irritatingly smug as ever. Like nothing has happened.
In the silence her brother leaves behind Skadi looks around at the contents of her room. She can’t envision herself standing here for a moment longer without destroying everything, tearing pictures off the walls and breaking items against the floor. So she also leaves.
She takes a long walk across the courtyard, skirting the main thoroughfare of the grounds in favor of the roughest most sun-soaked paths so that she meets with nobody. Eventually she reaches a small lake at an isolated corner of the gardens.
There are enough trees that the light over the lake appears overcast, and the water’s surface is a crystalline sort of gray and the atmosphere romantically misty. The air is cooler, but there are no winds today, and the water is smooth as glass.
Skadi remembers playing down here when she was a baby. Running in and out of the water’s edge with her brothers, giggling as they got their toes wet, thinking they were braver than they really were.
She remembers a spread picnic blanket and her father watching her with a smile. The weight of her mother’s hand against hers, voice a bright and encouraging whisper, as she taught her how to skip stones.
Leaning down Skadi scoops up a round flat pebble. She brings it level to her face, eyes it, and then curls her arm and tosses it carefully out with a flick of strength.
The stone skips seven times before it loses balance and lands with a plunk beneath the water.
She stares after it, hair drifting in her eyes, and realizes there’re tears running down her cheeks.
She never realized every last piece of who she is, every part of her identity, is encompassed by Asgard; and everything she thinks and feels about Asgard is marked by memories of her parents - so that the whole is hopelessly entwined together. Nothing can be pulled apart. She had a nice vacation while she was at Cranewood and could pretend to be somebody else, but now that she’s home again there’s no escaping the reminder.
She wants to belong to Asgard - but her concept of Asgard will, in part, always belong to her father.
It’s a truth undeniable and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
She knows if she lets herself stay this angry she will lose everything - her family, her home, the world as she knows it and her place in it. She’ll grow cold and become someone hostile, someone frightening.
But she doesn’t want to let go of her anger either. She should be angry: she has every right to be. Why must she be the one to change, when she’s the wronged party? It isn’t fair.
There is a quiet sound of movement behind her and Skadi turns to see who is stalking her, frown upon her face and one hand tightened into a fist.
The All-Father watches her calmly, hands folded out of sight behind his back.
“Be at peace, granddaughter,” he instructs passively, as her expression instantly changes. She turns quickly to scrub at her face and hide the tell-tale marks. “My apologies for interrupting you.”
“No, no. It is all right, Grandfather.” She looks again. “I did not see you coming.”
He gazes at her sedately with one bright eye within his weathered face, beneath a crown of snowy white hair, framed softly by ornate robes of silver and gold. He never blinks or frowns but his attitude seems somehow somber. And Skadi feels certain that he somehow knows what happened this morning at the training grounds, maybe even the quarrel she just had with Wyclef. It’s a sense she’s had her entire life, that her grandfather always seems to know about everything.
He places a hand out and Skadi puts her palm against his, unthinkingly. He gives her a comforting squeeze before releasing his grasp.
“You are unhappy, child,” he states. “For quite some time now, and growing worse by the day. It can come as no surprise to anyone.” He sighs. “But I am very sorry to see it. To watch the confusion in your soul, the raw agony within your heart.”
Head awhirl Skadi turns away slightly, eyes cast down, hands hanging limply at her sides.
“Your sympathy is kind, Grandfather, but there is no need you should be sorry,” she mutters, unable to see him past her eyelashes. “It’s not your fault.”
He breathes in and gives a strange laugh, quiet and slow and privately, mirthlessly amused. “Oh, no?”
Skadi looks at him bemused but he does not explain. Instead he rests a hand gently against her shoulder. “Will you walk with me awhile?”
“Of course.” It’s always been her pleasure to spend time with her grandfather. Especially now - even with this odd air of meaningful quiet.
The pace he sets is relaxed and unhurried. She walks alongside him, occasionally lingering a step or two behind, regarding him with curiosity.
They have moved far enough that the lake is out of sight when he begins conversation anew. “The relationship, Skadi, between your father and I. How would you describe it?”
She flounders in answering at first, mouth opening and closing once, and not only because it’s an unexpected question. “Respectful,” she settles on.
“Ah, true enough.” Grandfather nods sagely.
She wonders if he’s thinking the same things she is - that Father is sometimes overly polite in paying redress to his parent; that they don’t seem to spend any time alone together, that a distance lingers between them that at times seems cool. It’s nothing like the relationship Grandfather has with his other son, nor at all like relationship both sons have with their mother. It is something that Skadi has never understood, but like so much in her young life was willing to dismiss without thinking much over.
Now of course, that she revisits it, she cannot help but wonder.
Grandfather continues, “But do you think he loves me?”
Skadi is shocked. “You’re his father,” she blurts, unthinking. Even without clear proof it seems obvious that he should.
The All-Father stops walking. He waits to make certain she’s looking at him before he turns his head to focus on her with his singular gaze.
“Do you love your father, Skadi?” he asks her gently.
Not anymore, is the response that kicks at once to the forefront of her mind, swift and rancorous like bile rising. But the words refuse to leave her. She tries to think them through and finds she can’t make any sense appear in them.
He is still her father; still the one that raised her, held her, kissed her, bore her. She hates him now but does that necessarily mean she’s stopped loving him?
She finds, actually thinking on it, that she does not.
“I,” Skadi falters. Her stomach hurts. Tears rolls anew down her cheeks. She feels so profoundly lost and unhappy. “I…I don’t know.”
Grandfather runs the flat of his hand across her hair, waiting patiently until she’s cried it out and managed to mostly recompose herself, comforting in his presence and silent strength.
“Did your parents ever tell you how they happened to meet?”
Skadi sniffs before catching her breath. “I know a version of that story,” she says, implying she already knows there’s more than one.
Vagueness abounds in tales set in the years immediately prior to her parents’ courtship. Her mother and father, her aunts and uncles are all very careful what they mention as happening during this time. Uncle Thor being banished and sent to Earth, his first time meeting Aunt Jane, the adventures that followed…told enthusiastically, but with a certain lacking in detail.
She knows that this was considered a period of darkness. That her father had a quarrel with his brother, with everyone - and whatever it was, he bears its mark of shame still.
“I was told that Father made many mistakes,” she tells her grandfather softly, “and that because of them he took himself away from Asgard for a while.”
He nods. “Not untrue. But…”
He hesitates, a thoughtful expression that indicates he chooses his next words carefully.
Finally he speaks, “Forgive me, granddaughter, but I shall be blunt. Loki kept away from Asgard and none sought to retrieve him because he’d become a danger to it.” A tight breath is his only pause as he carries on, “He kept on doing dangerous things for quite some time: he was destructive, and hurt others through either intent or lack of caring, and often one of those he sought to harm was none other than his brother. Many times he lashed out at and even tried to kill Thor.”
Skadi takes this in dazedly - aghast, but not nearly as shocked as perhaps she could be. To hear such an extent of her father’s crimes is certainly surprising; but there’ve been plenty of hints prior to this that such a listing existed. It explains many things and fills in the unknown darkness of his past.
She’s already learned that her father is secretly of a whole other species. Can anything else kept from her really be that astounding?
“Why did he do it?” she asks with a grim sort of fascination.
“That I think it would best be left to your father to explain. There are many reasons, some of which I still may not entirely do credit to.” The factual swiftness leaves Grandfather’s tone. “But the tipping point, surely, came when he discovered what he really was.”
Skadi ceases in her walking and stares sluggishly down at her toes.
“He did not know.”
“No,” he agrees, “he did not. And that I’m afraid was my deed entirely. I kept the truth from him, until…until it was too late, and he had already found out on his own.”
She didn’t think about it. But now it makes sense. Father was not raised thinking he was a Jotun. That knowledge came to him much later on.
She has been so angry, so very angry that he could do this to her, that he could tell her such a lie - now it turns out he was lied to in exactly the same way himself? That he, out of everyone, might know something of what it is that Skadi is feeling?
She recalls with sudden vividness that look on his face when she turned on him. The horror in his eyes.
Her voice is ragged. “And then years later, he turned around and let the same thing happen to me?”
“We try so hard to prevent our children from making the same mistakes we have, Skadi. Sometimes those very actions push such events into happening. It is a strange pattern of fate that only becomes clear when you’re no longer standing inside it.” Letting his cryptic words to her hang he continues forward and she has awareness enough to follow. “But learning the truth of his origins as he did caused your father a great deal of pain. It filled him with rage that for a while consumed him entirely. He was spitefully jealous of Thor for having the birthright he felt he’d been denied, and he despised me entirely for the wrong I’d done to him.”
The All-Father stops at last in his purposeful path, and Skadi looks around to realize with a start they’ve somehow made it back to the palace and directly outside the entrance to his chambers.
Her grandfather speaks solemnly as he adds, “Eventually Loki returned to his brother. I cannot say that he has ever really returned to me.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. It sounds awful, almost pitiable to hear him describe. But she can’t say as much without bringing herself into hypocrisy.
Heedless of her plight, he gestures. “Come. There is something I want to show you.”
She has, she realizes, never been inside her grandfather’s rooms before. But she cannot deny him the request. When the door opens she trails in his footsteps, shoulders hunched anxiously, head respectfully bowed.
The interior is richly decorated in regal opulence, appropriate for a former king. The space is vast, divided by many hanging sheer curtains - much bigger than her own room, though not as big she knows as the king’s chamber that belongs to her uncle.
“Wait here,” Grandfather beckons, and he disappears out of sight.
Skadi is left standing near the center, head turning as she takes in the stories told by the runes painted high on the ceiling, the many trophies claimed from wars older than the generation before hers. The furniture is stately but minimal, and everything is almost intimidatingly tidy.
There’s an air of unreality over everything. It’s hard to imagine Grandfather actually sitting at his desk or standing before his wardrobe, or sleeping in his bed.
She knows he’s gone from the formidable ruler he was when her parents first knew him. Gracefully retired to being a smiling old man who spends afternoons hugging his grandchildren and spoiling them with treats. She will never find him frightening. But there’s nothing to disguise his ancientness, his power even now. He’s a presence that’s larger than life, that even his beloved granddaughter must attend to with proper reverence.
The All-Father steps back into the space, brushing aside a hanging of thick tan colored fabric, and Skadi turns to face him.
Between both his outstretched hands he holds Gungnir, his legendary spear.
As he walks closer Skadi can’t take her eyes away from the weapon, breath caught in her throat. The golden length of its shaft fairly gleams with history, with power - its blade is sharp, its staff is sturdy, and magic lurks promisingly beneath every inch of its surface.
“This has been my companion for many years. It is a tool well-made, seeking only a fitting bearer to its legacy.” He casts his eye along the object that he holds. “I had intended once to leave it to your father. Alas, I think, given the events of history, he would not now accept it,” he remarks sadly. “So I’ve decided that instead it should pass to you.”
“…Me?” Skadi gazes up at him, abashed and amazed.
Gungnir is a weapon of legend equaled perhaps only by Mjolnir itself. It represents everything the All-Father ever accomplished. It is a symbol of Asgard’s glory. Inheriting it is no small honor.
The part of Skadi raised to adhere to tradition wants to protest. If not to one of his sons then surely the All-Father should leave it to his eldest’s yet unborn heir, a future king. But instead he gives it to the granddaughter of his second child?
But Skadi is speechless. Instead of voicing her thoughts she merely stands there, hands upheld, as her grandfather neatly places Gungnir down within her palms.
Her fingers wrap firmly yet gingerly around the long hilt, timidity testing the feel of its weight with great respect and care.
“One day, when I am gone, this will be yours.”
All words are stilled with the significance she feels within this moment. In one gesture he professes his love, confirms his favoritism, and proclaims her warrior.
Her eyes lift slowly to her grandfather’s face as she hands Gungnir back to him. He takes it without hesitance.
“Remember that,” he offers her, mildly. “And, remember also…that what you think begins between you and your father, is only the most recent part of a story that stretches back far further.”
“He still lied to me,” Skadi whispers, unable to put the vehemence into it she might have earlier. “He still did wrong by making a mockery of my entire life.”
“I never said you had to forgive him, Skadi,” Grandfather corrects her. “I only said that you should remember the circumstances. Think on it.”
With dim uncertainty she nods.
Grandfather looks satisfied. An absent smile graces his expression as with one arm he tugs her into an embrace, pressing a kiss to her temple. She hugs him back at the shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut as her face brushes his thick whiskers.
“Now, pardon me for hurrying you, but I must ask you to leave,” he requests, polite but certain. “I have another appointment.”
Skadi is but barely aware of one foot going in front of the other as she makes her way to the door. She feels both heavier and lighter, the weight of a million thoughts the only thing keeping her down as her head threatens to float away in confusion.
At the threshold however a thought strikes her. She turns back.
“Grandfather, did you give me anything else recently? Any other presents?”
He looks at her in puzzlement. “No,” is his simple, frank answer. “Why?”
Skadi laughs weakly, and only says in reply, “No reason.”
She is such a fool. The mask and the staff weren’t from who she thought at all. And they didn’t mean what she thought at first either.
But of course the items were left for her by her father. Who else?
She bows in farewell to her grandfather. After taking her leave she doesn’t go back down the hallway into the rest of the palace on the way to her room.
Instead she goes the other way, the long way, twisting around back outside so that she walks through the grounds directly beneath the All-Father’s balcony. She has much to think about, and she doesn’t want to be cloistered within the palace. She needs some air.
It’s grown much darker now, dusk having settled in. There are torches outside to provide illumination, though she knows from experience she will seem little more than a glimmer in the dark.
It’s not her intention to sneak around hidden but it turns out to be to her favor when she passes back by the exterior of the rooms she was just in and happens to look up.
Two figures are in her grandfather’s room, standing close in conversation near the windows. The night air across the balcony blows the curtains aside, offering for a brief time an almost perfect view. The All-Father’s form is easily recognized. The second is slimmer and taller than him, green and gold-trimmed robes, dark hair-
Father.
Skadi’s breath stills. Though no one looks her way she halts in her path, and ducks partway behind a tree. Fingers pressed against the trunk she peers up, watching intently.
Father and Grandfather face one another, from the look of things the first talking rapidly, the second standing there mostly silent. From their expressions and gestures their conversation is intense, emotional, and very, very personal.
Grandfather appears sorrowful, weary. Father…his words come at times unsteadily, his hands shaking, his face pained. He acts as a supplicant, his manner beseeching.
His daughter has never seen this before. He looks anguished.
A few fading snippets from their voices drift down, barely discernible to Skadi’s ears:
“…sorry, so sorry…I never knew…”
“…hush now…it’s alright, my son…”
There’s not been much incentive lately to respect her father’s privacy. But in light of the things she’s been told earlier, Skadi realizes this is not a moment to be witnessed by anyone.
She peels herself off from the tree and heads speedily away.
*
For the next few days Skadi is quiet, and keeps mostly to herself.
She lies on her bed or sits by the window, and thinks about everything that she’s done. She thinks about her past, about Mom and her grandparents and her siblings. She thinks about her childhood on Asgard. She thinks about what she learned during her time at Cranewood. She thinks about everything she’s ever seen or heard, and then she thinks about the things of the past that her grandfather told her.
Her father raised her to believe a lie. He taught her to practice values he couldn’t uphold himself. He is not the man she thought he was for the past fourteen years of her life.
He’s more complicated than that. But, she’s coming to find he’s more complicated than who she believed he was after finding out the truth, also.
His betrayal changes a lot of things. At first she thought it changed everything - that it negated everything too.
But she’s starting to feel that might not be true.
Time goes by. Skadi still avoids her father’s gaze. She has no idea what Grandfather told him about their conversation, if anything. She has no idea what he knows.
But surely he must sense something.
One day Skadi receives a note in his handwriting. There’s no greeting, no floweriness, no entreaties. Only a simple request: she is to come alone to the vault where Asgard stores its most powerful weapons at a certain time.
She wonders what would happen if she ignores the note, if she didn’t come. But she never considers not going.
With the strangest anticipation hanging over her, pulse thrumming as if she heads off to battle, she makes her way down to the darkened bowels of the palace. The guards outside the vault don’t give her a second look - inside the room is dim and cold, lit only by torches and the few items that glow.
Father sits on the floor at the very end of the single long passage that makes up the room. He’s hunched slightly, legs apart in front of him and folded, forearms resting on his knees. His clothes are, for him, simple: he looks as though he didn’t sleep well and then dressed in a hurry.
He spies her arrival and rises, carefully. “Skadi. Thank you for coming to me.” There is a tremor in his voice, an awareness and fear that she could’ve refused.
Skadi stops when she’s four feet in front of him - closer than for a while she has allowed him to get. “You wanted to see me?” she asks calmly, toneless.
Father nods once, swallowing lightly. He turns and looks back at the wall behind him, over his shoulder. At the great black sword that hangs there, crossed over and over by heavy chains.
“One day I will tell you the story of where that came from. Of the first battle your mother and I ever fought.” He looks back to her. “But today, my child, if you will stand to listen, I’ll tell you a different story instead. Of the object that stood in this same space when I was young, and how it forever changed me.”
“Go on,” Skadi says in a quiet voice, her throat tight, her mouth dry.
Her father takes a step to the side, shuffling almost. Averting his gaze from her and fixing instead on an empty space in the air before him he raises both his hands. Fingers spread he frames them, as if making the shape of a box.
And then as Skadi watches there is a blue glow - he waves his hands and suddenly there is an object where there was nothing before. A rectangle, almost, accompanied by a hiss and rush of frigid air. There are markings that can’t be Asgardian. It’s nothing Skadi recognizes.
With utmost care Father slowly pulls his hands away. The object he summoned remains where it is, hovering, supported by his magic.
Skadi takes a step closer, just one, to take a better look at it. She can feel power - something that sets her nerves on edge. And the air in the vault seems to have grown perceptibly colder.
“This,” her father says, voice suppressed, unsteady but determined, “is called the Casket of Ancient Winters. It was seized in the last great war fought by the All-Father. It was taken, in the last days of battle with the Frost Giants, from Jotunheim.”
Her eyes jump sharply to his face. He seems paler and sickly behind the faint light put out by the Casket.
“This is a Frost Giant weapon?” she asks.
“Yes, and more. It’s a construct of ancient power and can be used to do many things. Once, it was considered the very heart of their world itself.” He lifts a hand again, stopping with fingers curled just above it. His hand, she realizes, is shaking. “Though all I’ve ever learned to do with it is summon bursts of cold.”
“You said it used to be kept here.” Skadi frowns. “That it was once where the Kinslayer’s blade is.”
Father nods. “When I was a boy, my father used to bring me and my brother down here,” he recollects aloud. “He’d stand us in front of it and tell us tales of the villainous Frost Giants, and how one day when we were older it would be our turn to do battle with such monsters.”
Skadi stares up at him, her heart in her throat. She can only wait for him to go on.
Father’s mouth twitches. He finally meets her eyes. “And then when I was older, I found out the truth. At the worst possible time. In the worst possible way.”
He drops his hand and weaves around the Casket, closing the distance between them, halving it. Skadi leans back, tensed, but doesn’t step away.
“I wasn’t a child, as you still are, Skadi. I was a young man. I thought there was nothing about myself left to learn. And I didn’t just find out that someone in my family was not what I’d expected: I learned that I had no family. That my parents were not my parents at all. I was a monster. I was nothing.”
His eyes are wide, and full of sadness, and pleading.
“I don’t ask that you stop hating me. I alone out of all others can understand exactly why you should want to. But please understand me: I wasn’t raised as you and your brothers and sister have been. I was not surrounded by acceptance and daily showings of love. I already felt alone, and different, and I had been raised to think of the Jotun as brutish repulsive creatures, and then I found out I was one.” His voice breaks, halting, and then he goes on, looking sideways. “Can you even begin to imagine?”
Skadi swallows thickly. “Probably exactly like what happened to me and what I felt. Only, worse,” she allows. “Like a hundred times worse.”
Father gives a quaking laugh as he nods again. “Most likely.” He gestures as if he’d like to reach for her, but doesn’t dare to.
“So you see to me being a Jotun will always be marked by horror. I thought having to grow up knowing, the way that I knew, would cause my children unspeakable pain. I only wanted to spare you that pain.” He shuts his eyes. “I was so focused avoiding it, I didn’t think to what might happen should the cycle be repeated.”
“You should have,” is the only reproach Skadi can think to give him, childish and heated but there all the same.
“I know. I should have. And I…I am so, so sorry daughter,” he breathes. “I never wanted to hurt you. It breaks my heart, to think you have suffered as I once suffered. That in my selfishness, and my arrogance,” his teeth show, rough with self-loathing, “I almost caused you to lose your way.”
He steps back again, and she realizes he’s heading closer to the Casket, even though he never takes his eyes off her.
“But you see, I could never accept it. Telling you and the others would mean having to face what I was myself,” Father explains fatalistically. “And I couldn’t. I was too weak. Even now I…” Yet another shake of his head. “I wanted to give you everything. Instead the only thing I passed on to you is the curse of having my blood.”
“What are you doing?” she questions, suddenly afraid.
He looks away from her and at the Casket, face empty as if he stares down off of a cliff.
“This is what I saw, all those years ago, the first time I felt the icy clasp of winter. This is what I became: what I realized no matter what I could never, never fight.”
He touches the side of the Casket. At once his fingers start to change. First grey, then blue, the texture of his skin rippling as it grows thicker and weird, rough markings rise. The coldness is spreading from the Casket to his body. And with it the change continues onward, upward, until everything she can see of his skin is blue and different.
Skadi breathes in slowly, softly. Father turns to her and his eyes are red. His gaze is mournful, and when he speaks his voice is the same.
“This is what I really am.” He looks down at his free hand even as the other remains on the Casket. “What I hate. What will always be my ‘true form’. So much happier am I to hide and to lie.” He lifts his chin and meets her eyes again.
“But here it is. You deserved the truth. So I give you all of it.”
Skadi doesn’t know what to say. Yes, it is frightening to see him this way, if only for how he’s both the same and yet at once so different. And she can tell how much his own body sickens him - what it means, to one raised as he was. But she has never seen a Frost Giant before.
And frankly, she thought they’d be uglier.
Her gaze drifts to the Casket itself. The cold reaches out to her, she almost feels it calling. Like it knows what she is. Like it knows that Jotunheim is part of her legacy.
She hesitates for a moment and then Skadi lifts her own hand, reaching for it.
She feels her father watching her, hears him breathe in with alarm. But he doesn’t try to stop her. And she has to know for herself.
There’s a tingle under her skin. The Casket seems to shudder against her hand; she feels its cold seeping into her body, pulling at her, trying to bring her over to its side. There’s an odd feeling in her head, like some ancient voice is whispering to her, and she can’t decide whether this is sinister or merely strange.
But nothing happens to her hand. She stares down at it, watching, and her skin remains white, not blue.
She looks to her father, questioning, and finds he too watches, face expressionless. He catches her eyes and shakes his head, not having an answer himself.
Skadi takes her hand away from the Casket. Father mirrors her. She hesitates briefly again before going to seize his hand with her own - he sees what she’s doing and lifts both hands up, palm-forward.
She meets his with hers positioned a similar way, palm to palm, her slightly shorter fingers spreading to match his best she can.
They stand there, silently, hands pressed against each other’s.
She can see Father’s skin gradually warming again without the contact of the Casket, his complexion paling and pinking. But nothing is happening to her.
He smiles, faintly. “Well after all, you are half-mortal,” he offers. “It seems to have done the trick necessary to save your appearance. Another reason for me to love your mother.” But he reminds her, “Any who was not Jotun-born would not be able to survive such cold.”
“I know.” Skadi drops her hands and steps back. “And if you weren’t Jotun, you wouldn’t have been able to give birth to me, right? And, you probably wouldn’t have met Mom, either.”
He stares at her, taken aback, not seeming to know what to say. “Skadi…”
She stops him with a shake of her head. She draws a breath. “I would not exist, if you hadn’t been a Frost Giant,” she concludes. “And so I think…it cannot be such a bad thing.”
He’s changed completely back now. The last bit of red leaves his eyes as they go back to that familiar green. The same green eyes that all her brothers have. The same green eyes Skadi sees every time she looks in the mirror.
She can never doubt where she comes from, can she? How fortunate she. She’ll always know exactly who she is.
“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” Skadi tells her father, “but you don’t have to apologize for what you were born as.”
Father bites his lower lip, eyebrows knitting together as he gazes at her. He doesn’t seem to trust what he’s hearing her say is correct.
One of them, she thinks, is probably going to cry. Skadi manages a smile and raises her arms to hug her father, turning her head to the side as she closes the distance between them. Father makes a weak, stifled sound as he embraces her, pressing her to his body tight.
Her father, Skadi at last understands, is not the man she thought he was.
But he is still her father.
He will always be a part of her. It’s useless for her to be angry about that. There’s no point in her trying to fight it.
And, Skadi knows as Father squeezes her in his arms and curls his fingers in her hair, the warmth of his body familiar, his chin tucked down just against the top of her head, she wouldn’t want to fight that, anyway.
*
It is no surprise to anyone that Skadi will grow to be a warrior. One the greatest that Asgard has ever known.
She will roam far and have a great many adventures. She will fight and slay multitudes of enemies. She will see a great many things. She will live a long number of years.
She’ll meet a vast host of people, some of whom will like her, some who will not. Among them she’ll find true companions, warrior comrades, lifelong friends, and even a love or two.
But no matter what she will always return to Asgard. For Asgard is her home. And she does her realm proud by her exploits, which become known far and wide.
They sing and speak and whisper of Skadi in her silver armor trimmed with blue, mounted on a black steed with spear in her hands, silver mask over her face and wind streaming through her long dark hair. Skadi whose eyes gleam brightest in battle. Skadi who is fearless, and laughs for joy while fighting. Skadi who calls Winter to her fingertips. Skadi who is master of the blade. Skadi who is beautiful to behold, but has the most wicked grin.
And when they tell of her she is called by many names. They speak of them, some with awe, some with condescension. But always with respect, no matter how begrudging.
Skadi the Wolf, some murmur. Or Skadi Giant’s Blood, some others sneer. Skadi Longknife. Skadi Winter’s Breath. Skadi Odin’s Gem. And, most commonly: Skadi the Unyielding.
But above all else, her first and truest name is irreplaceable, for it is what she will always be.
For she will always be…Skadi Lokischild.
*
Returning to Asgard feels more strange than it is a relief. Of course the path was inevitable; she hardly expected she would stay at Cranewood forever. But for Asgard’s familiarity it does not seem entirely welcoming to her. Not anymore.
She sleeps in her bed and eats with her family and walks through the same rooms she’s known ever since she was too small to fully remember. She’s surrounded by her things and everywhere she goes are the same sights and sounds and smells that once every day pleased and reassured her.
And everything is quiet, too quiet, and tense. Life seems static, and frozen, with no real joy or willingness behind it. As if she’s only going through the motions out of habit. As if her whole life has been cast in glass, and now everyone’s just waiting for it to shatter.
When she thinks of home the Asgard in her memories is peaceful and easygoing. An idyllic place, where Skadi was free to do as she pleased, and ignore whatever she wanted about her surroundings.
This place isn’t that ‘home’ any longer. Things have changed.
Everywhere she goes, she knows she is being watched, and not so kindly. People whisper about her, snide, and wondering.
She is half-Jotun; an unknown quality. Out of all her siblings she was the first unmasked and the only one to show any Frost Giant powers, and somehow, that makes her the one they are the most concerned with. They are trying to take her measure. Trying to figure out what she will do, what this new knowledge of her heritage means.
Skadi can feel them looking hard, searching for the cracks, waiting for her to show them some glimpse of the monster.
Though this new scrutiny affects them all and they are not held in as high regard as they once were, her family behaves as though the months that passed gave them time to recover. They are happy and careless with one another, and Skadi pretends she feels the same. Pretends that her time away soothed over her feelings and she is back to being as she once was. As if she has forgotten to be angry.
But she has not. Oh no, she has not.
Her family presents a picture of unity. When they are still too young to choose for themselves, their mother had the conceit to dress them always in shades of green. Now older, Fandra often prefers pinks and purples, and Wyclef usually goes about in solid black. But Skadi has never until now rejected the ‘family colors’.
Now she refuses to be seen in them. She digs through her closet and tosses all greens and golds aside, leaving them in a wrinkled sad heap on the floor: rejected, cast off.
There’s no plan in it but she finds herself gravitating to blue. Icy shades or bright royal ones. Wyclef’s darkness blends in, Fandra’s dusky velvet compliments rather than jars, but Skadi’s attire visibly clashes with her family. It’s as if she holds herself apart from them, always standing one step back.
She will not speak to her father. She won’t sit next to him, she won’t stand near him, and if possible leaves whenever he enters a room.
When forced to she addresses him coldly. And she wills him to see all her contempt and disdain, whenever he looks into her eyes.
He makes no act to hide that such rejection makes him miserable. She takes no pains to hide that such misery leaves her unmoved.
He is too shamed by her anger to respond with anger in kind. He will not demand or beg her forgiveness, and she has sworn to herself he will never have it from her anyway. By now her hatred has turned inward, sour but seething, and formed itself into conviction.
She’s no way to vent her growing restlessness, her sense of wronged frustration. She has yet to return to the training grounds, uncertain what she might find there waiting for her. Aunt Sif she knows will not reject her, but the other recruits…
She hangs back rather than dare to find the answer. Sparring has always been her outlet, her place where she is happiest and freest and most herself. She is eaten up with the dread of that spoiled.
The rest of the family watches her from the corner of their eyes, silent and misgiving. Skadi feels sure she knows whose side all of them are on. Well, she won’t hear it.
If she’s the only one who can see Father for the coward that he is, if she must stand alone, then so be it.
There is one single seeming outlet, though, and that is Skadi’s grandfather. He says nothing on the subject, less than the others, if possible. But his gaze lingers on her sometimes as his fingers tug at his beard, thoughtful. And she sees sympathy in the lines of his well-worn face.
Beloved Grandfather, who cheers on her accomplishments and hails them as solemnly as if she were a queen. Who was ever there with a lap for her to sit in, a tiny present snuck into her little hand, a fond twinkle in his eye. Who watches her fight and cry ‘for Asgard!’ and smiles over her so proudly.
Of course he would care for her feelings throughout this. Of course he would understand.
One afternoon Skadi returns to her chamber to find someone has snuck a gift in for her. Unwrapped, two objects lay on the bed side by side.
The first is a battle mask, not unlike what she wore that fateful day, but this one has obviously been made for her. It fits the lines of her face perfectly and when strapped into place covers everything but her hair. Its shape is that of a wolf’s, beaten and molded with artisan’s skill from fine silver, the snout curving over the length of her chin, two ears atop almost like proud horns, a fierce and flawless visage through which she can peer with canny eyes.
The second is a weapon, a long staff that ends in a blade almost more like a knife than a spear’s, wicked and thick and curving to one side. Hand-carved with patterns and bone-white, it is no practice weapon. This is equipment for a true and full-fledged warrior.
Skadi is thrilled with the presents and delights over both of them. There is no note, but it was hardly necessary. Surely these must be from her grandfather. Knowing she longs to return to the training grounds he had them made and sent to bolster her. He wanted to encourage her warrior’s spirit and flagging sense of identity.
Heeding his wishes Skadi straps them on right away and heads out in search of practice, heart pounding in anticipation.
She finds some young acolytes gathered out at the training fields underneath watchful eyes of their instructors. The sun is bright, the winds still and low as staves and dulled blades lower silently. Leather armor creaks as heads turn to look at her.
As she closes the distance she waits for somebody to speak. But nobody does. Their faces are blank - and perhaps, she thinks, a bit nervous. Though too little to guess exactly nervous of what.
Skadi swears though, that they won’t see her be nervous in reply. You will not see my doubt. She swallows and forces a smile. Lifts her chin a bit as she holds head up high.
“I’ve come to spar. I’m sorely out of practice,” she announces, cool as one pleases. “Will anyone be my partner?”
There’s hesitance. Glances are exchanged. Skadi looks expectantly from one face to another.
One of the instructors finally clears his throat. He points. “You there,” he gestures gruffly, “and you. And you. You can take turns indulging the princess.”
She nods her thanks, as the first lad steps forward, ducking his gaze. Skadi takes up her position and slips into a stance, spear raised. Across at the other side of the well-worn stone circle the youth that’s to be her opponent mirrors her.
There’s no command to start but there doesn’t have to be. They are well versed in this.
There is a moment, just a moment, of stiff tension before it begins. Those few seconds of glorious anticipation just before a fight, full of potential and excitement: a young warrior’s favorite time.
In that space, the young man lifts his head and looks straight at Skadi. His eyes flash, his mouth curls in a sneer.
It’s not disgust but derision. Dismissiveness. ‘You will never belong here. Try, try as you might, you don’t fool us. You might be the best warrior but you will never be of Asgard.’
Skadi’s face falls. Her heart thuds once, hard, inside her throat. Then she steels her gaze again and smoothly, with one hand, reaches to slip her mask down from where she was wearing it back over her hair, to fully cover her expression.
They will not see her doubt. They will not see anything. It’s not for them to see.
The bout begins. The youth makes the mistake of starting too slow, of underestimating her. He goes to knock Skadi back and she leaps out of the way easily, and then hits him hard before he can recover. The air whistles and rends in a sharp thwack as she strikes him once, twice, three times, each blow bruising and harder than necessary. The lad tumbles backward and lands on the ground outside the ring, wincing.
No one steps in quickly to take his place, as they give Skadi a look that’s now much more wary.
“Well go on then,” the instructor snaps, though there’s a tension in his voice. “Don’t keep her waiting.”
The two trade a look, the one closer starting to move as they seem to come to their decision. But Skadi doesn’t wait on him. Before he can slip into a ready posture she strikes, bringing the side of her spear against his chest, the length gripped apart between both her fists.
Her victim makes a noise of irate protest - she gives no quarter, but shifts her footwork and goes in for another attack. He barely blocks her, and then both he and the second trainee lunge for her at once, instead of waiting.
She looks back over her shoulder, spear lifted and braced for an overhead strike. They are circling her, one heading for her back while the other remains at her front. They mean to harry her by pinning her between them. A wise tactic.
But pride notwithstanding Skadi really is a much better fighter than most of the beginners. She sees the weaknesses in their forms, moves faster than they can prepare for. She slashes one in the leg; the other gets a spear butt across the forehead. Both reel back, injured, complaining.
She assaults them again. There’s a swift kick to a kneecap, an unflinching punch to a stomach. She swings her head forward, bashing a skull as temple meets with her mask. The first opponent she knocked down is now back on his feet and rushes to avenge himself by joining the others, and all three attempt at her at once. The fight is no longer a sparring match but a wild thing, a brawl.
Skadi gives into her instinct, her reflex, and moves without thinking. She is all vicious attack and untouchable defense. The blood is a steady encouraging chant in her ears as she pours her strength into every muscle, determined to show them her might.
The anger compressed inside pours out of her and guides her as she strikes. Those fighting her flail about desperately, trying to stop her, trying to escape her reach but she keeps on coming, unrelenting, driven on by the cold fire within her.
Attack, attack, attack - she will not stop, not until they’ve all been knocked down. Until no one stands left who dares to face her. Until they’ve paid for dismissing her, for disrespecting her, until she’s shown them all. Until she destroys them all, rips every last one of them into pieces-
“Enough!” a voice roars, and as Skadi is brought to reality, Sif stands between her and the others, a forearm braced against each side, violently shoving Skadi away.
Skadi stumbles back, reels, concentration shattered but keeps her footing. She is breathing heavily as her chest rises and falls, soaked in a cold sweat she doesn’t remember the beginnings of. Her heart still races as she lifts her mask to stare back at Sif wildly.
Sif’s mouth is a line, her lips pale, twisting as if with something bitter. But her eyes are hard and undeniable.
“Go,” she commands, voice loud and furious. “Leave and don’t come back. You’re barred from any practice here, until you can get yourself under control!”
Skadi stares in bewilderment. A sharp taste hits her; she lifts knuckle to her mouth and brings it away smeared red, and realizes her lower lip is bleeding. But none struck her - in the intensity of her battle fury she bit down without even feeling.
She gapes at Lady Sif, wanting to protest but nothing comes. This is a woman she was raised to call ‘Aunt’, one of the bravest warriors Asgard has ever known. And she’s looking at her like…
Skadi spins, stomach twisting, and hurries herself away.
Back in her room she wrenches the mask from around her neck and tosses it away with a clatter. The spear falls from her grasp to the floor. Her heart still pounds, hands shaking.
She’s always enjoyed a good fight, the act of battle making her feel alive, bringing a heat to her blood. But what has just happened - it’s never been like this before.
She would’ve killed her opponents if left unchecked, she knows she would have. She wanted to.
She feels awash in shame for one full moment before it’s suddenly shoved aside. She remembers the reason why she is what she is, the reason why this is happening to her. The anger comes again, rapid and consuming. Her teeth bare as she lets loose a guttural howl.
Going to the mirror she looks at her pale skin, her sharp face, bright green eyes that stare out from beneath thick black tresses.
Casting about she snatches up a knife.
Seizing one fistful at a time she saws through her hair, chopping it off. Until nothing’s left but scraggly locks shorn close to her skull.
When she’s finished she stands in uncertainty, chest heaving. Taking a few dizzy steps she turns about, grasping at her temple, not knowing what to do next.
A voice says her name: “Skadi.”
She spins to face it and almost screams, thinking at first her father stands there in the door. But the face is too young, too thin. Her brother Wyclef raises a quizzing eyebrow at her, almost mockingly.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Who said you could come in here?” Skadi snaps back. “Get out of my room! Get out of here!” She lunges at him, shrieking, fists thrashing. “Get away from me!”
Wyclef manages to brace himself and with a grunt shoves her back. As she goes flying she feels the dancing tickle of his magic reaching out to her - she hits her bed and lands back on her mattress, and when she lifts her head again her hair once more hangs long about her face, untouched.
“How dare you,” she gasps out, tugging at it, incensed he’d do anything to her without her permission. “Don’t use your powers on me!”
“How do you think Mom would’ve reacted, once she’d seen what you’d done?” he retorts. “What else would you do, I wonder - did you plan next to carve out your eyes, because they also look like Father’s?”
She scrambles to her feet, using her hands, huffing. “Don’t talk to me like you have any idea. Have you no sense of pride?”
“What, because I’m not cross with him too?” He scoffs, arms folded, leaning against her door with one foot raised. “You’re acting like a child. No - like a madwoman. And to think you lay claim to being the reasonable one.”
Skadi hurls a pillow, then a vase in his direction. “If you’re not going to say anything useful, then get out of my sight!”
Wyclef obeys her silently and goes, but not without giving her one last superior, disdainful look.
She stares after him in the wake of his departure, hopeless and numb and desperately angry. She doesn’t understand how he can do it. How he goes on like nothing’s changed about him, still as self-assured and irritatingly smug as ever. Like nothing has happened.
In the silence her brother leaves behind Skadi looks around at the contents of her room. She can’t envision herself standing here for a moment longer without destroying everything, tearing pictures off the walls and breaking items against the floor. So she also leaves.
She takes a long walk across the courtyard, skirting the main thoroughfare of the grounds in favor of the roughest most sun-soaked paths so that she meets with nobody. Eventually she reaches a small lake at an isolated corner of the gardens.
There are enough trees that the light over the lake appears overcast, and the water’s surface is a crystalline sort of gray and the atmosphere romantically misty. The air is cooler, but there are no winds today, and the water is smooth as glass.
Skadi remembers playing down here when she was a baby. Running in and out of the water’s edge with her brothers, giggling as they got their toes wet, thinking they were braver than they really were.
She remembers a spread picnic blanket and her father watching her with a smile. The weight of her mother’s hand against hers, voice a bright and encouraging whisper, as she taught her how to skip stones.
Leaning down Skadi scoops up a round flat pebble. She brings it level to her face, eyes it, and then curls her arm and tosses it carefully out with a flick of strength.
The stone skips seven times before it loses balance and lands with a plunk beneath the water.
She stares after it, hair drifting in her eyes, and realizes there’re tears running down her cheeks.
She never realized every last piece of who she is, every part of her identity, is encompassed by Asgard; and everything she thinks and feels about Asgard is marked by memories of her parents - so that the whole is hopelessly entwined together. Nothing can be pulled apart. She had a nice vacation while she was at Cranewood and could pretend to be somebody else, but now that she’s home again there’s no escaping the reminder.
She wants to belong to Asgard - but her concept of Asgard will, in part, always belong to her father.
It’s a truth undeniable and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
She knows if she lets herself stay this angry she will lose everything - her family, her home, the world as she knows it and her place in it. She’ll grow cold and become someone hostile, someone frightening.
But she doesn’t want to let go of her anger either. She should be angry: she has every right to be. Why must she be the one to change, when she’s the wronged party? It isn’t fair.
There is a quiet sound of movement behind her and Skadi turns to see who is stalking her, frown upon her face and one hand tightened into a fist.
The All-Father watches her calmly, hands folded out of sight behind his back.
“Be at peace, granddaughter,” he instructs passively, as her expression instantly changes. She turns quickly to scrub at her face and hide the tell-tale marks. “My apologies for interrupting you.”
“No, no. It is all right, Grandfather.” She looks again. “I did not see you coming.”
He gazes at her sedately with one bright eye within his weathered face, beneath a crown of snowy white hair, framed softly by ornate robes of silver and gold. He never blinks or frowns but his attitude seems somehow somber. And Skadi feels certain that he somehow knows what happened this morning at the training grounds, maybe even the quarrel she just had with Wyclef. It’s a sense she’s had her entire life, that her grandfather always seems to know about everything.
He places a hand out and Skadi puts her palm against his, unthinkingly. He gives her a comforting squeeze before releasing his grasp.
“You are unhappy, child,” he states. “For quite some time now, and growing worse by the day. It can come as no surprise to anyone.” He sighs. “But I am very sorry to see it. To watch the confusion in your soul, the raw agony within your heart.”
Head awhirl Skadi turns away slightly, eyes cast down, hands hanging limply at her sides.
“Your sympathy is kind, Grandfather, but there is no need you should be sorry,” she mutters, unable to see him past her eyelashes. “It’s not your fault.”
He breathes in and gives a strange laugh, quiet and slow and privately, mirthlessly amused. “Oh, no?”
Skadi looks at him bemused but he does not explain. Instead he rests a hand gently against her shoulder. “Will you walk with me awhile?”
“Of course.” It’s always been her pleasure to spend time with her grandfather. Especially now - even with this odd air of meaningful quiet.
The pace he sets is relaxed and unhurried. She walks alongside him, occasionally lingering a step or two behind, regarding him with curiosity.
They have moved far enough that the lake is out of sight when he begins conversation anew. “The relationship, Skadi, between your father and I. How would you describe it?”
She flounders in answering at first, mouth opening and closing once, and not only because it’s an unexpected question. “Respectful,” she settles on.
“Ah, true enough.” Grandfather nods sagely.
She wonders if he’s thinking the same things she is - that Father is sometimes overly polite in paying redress to his parent; that they don’t seem to spend any time alone together, that a distance lingers between them that at times seems cool. It’s nothing like the relationship Grandfather has with his other son, nor at all like relationship both sons have with their mother. It is something that Skadi has never understood, but like so much in her young life was willing to dismiss without thinking much over.
Now of course, that she revisits it, she cannot help but wonder.
Grandfather continues, “But do you think he loves me?”
Skadi is shocked. “You’re his father,” she blurts, unthinking. Even without clear proof it seems obvious that he should.
The All-Father stops walking. He waits to make certain she’s looking at him before he turns his head to focus on her with his singular gaze.
“Do you love your father, Skadi?” he asks her gently.
Not anymore, is the response that kicks at once to the forefront of her mind, swift and rancorous like bile rising. But the words refuse to leave her. She tries to think them through and finds she can’t make any sense appear in them.
He is still her father; still the one that raised her, held her, kissed her, bore her. She hates him now but does that necessarily mean she’s stopped loving him?
She finds, actually thinking on it, that she does not.
“I,” Skadi falters. Her stomach hurts. Tears rolls anew down her cheeks. She feels so profoundly lost and unhappy. “I…I don’t know.”
Grandfather runs the flat of his hand across her hair, waiting patiently until she’s cried it out and managed to mostly recompose herself, comforting in his presence and silent strength.
“Did your parents ever tell you how they happened to meet?”
Skadi sniffs before catching her breath. “I know a version of that story,” she says, implying she already knows there’s more than one.
Vagueness abounds in tales set in the years immediately prior to her parents’ courtship. Her mother and father, her aunts and uncles are all very careful what they mention as happening during this time. Uncle Thor being banished and sent to Earth, his first time meeting Aunt Jane, the adventures that followed…told enthusiastically, but with a certain lacking in detail.
She knows that this was considered a period of darkness. That her father had a quarrel with his brother, with everyone - and whatever it was, he bears its mark of shame still.
“I was told that Father made many mistakes,” she tells her grandfather softly, “and that because of them he took himself away from Asgard for a while.”
He nods. “Not untrue. But…”
He hesitates, a thoughtful expression that indicates he chooses his next words carefully.
Finally he speaks, “Forgive me, granddaughter, but I shall be blunt. Loki kept away from Asgard and none sought to retrieve him because he’d become a danger to it.” A tight breath is his only pause as he carries on, “He kept on doing dangerous things for quite some time: he was destructive, and hurt others through either intent or lack of caring, and often one of those he sought to harm was none other than his brother. Many times he lashed out at and even tried to kill Thor.”
Skadi takes this in dazedly - aghast, but not nearly as shocked as perhaps she could be. To hear such an extent of her father’s crimes is certainly surprising; but there’ve been plenty of hints prior to this that such a listing existed. It explains many things and fills in the unknown darkness of his past.
She’s already learned that her father is secretly of a whole other species. Can anything else kept from her really be that astounding?
“Why did he do it?” she asks with a grim sort of fascination.
“That I think it would best be left to your father to explain. There are many reasons, some of which I still may not entirely do credit to.” The factual swiftness leaves Grandfather’s tone. “But the tipping point, surely, came when he discovered what he really was.”
Skadi ceases in her walking and stares sluggishly down at her toes.
“He did not know.”
“No,” he agrees, “he did not. And that I’m afraid was my deed entirely. I kept the truth from him, until…until it was too late, and he had already found out on his own.”
She didn’t think about it. But now it makes sense. Father was not raised thinking he was a Jotun. That knowledge came to him much later on.
She has been so angry, so very angry that he could do this to her, that he could tell her such a lie - now it turns out he was lied to in exactly the same way himself? That he, out of everyone, might know something of what it is that Skadi is feeling?
She recalls with sudden vividness that look on his face when she turned on him. The horror in his eyes.
Her voice is ragged. “And then years later, he turned around and let the same thing happen to me?”
“We try so hard to prevent our children from making the same mistakes we have, Skadi. Sometimes those very actions push such events into happening. It is a strange pattern of fate that only becomes clear when you’re no longer standing inside it.” Letting his cryptic words to her hang he continues forward and she has awareness enough to follow. “But learning the truth of his origins as he did caused your father a great deal of pain. It filled him with rage that for a while consumed him entirely. He was spitefully jealous of Thor for having the birthright he felt he’d been denied, and he despised me entirely for the wrong I’d done to him.”
The All-Father stops at last in his purposeful path, and Skadi looks around to realize with a start they’ve somehow made it back to the palace and directly outside the entrance to his chambers.
Her grandfather speaks solemnly as he adds, “Eventually Loki returned to his brother. I cannot say that he has ever really returned to me.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. It sounds awful, almost pitiable to hear him describe. But she can’t say as much without bringing herself into hypocrisy.
Heedless of her plight, he gestures. “Come. There is something I want to show you.”
She has, she realizes, never been inside her grandfather’s rooms before. But she cannot deny him the request. When the door opens she trails in his footsteps, shoulders hunched anxiously, head respectfully bowed.
The interior is richly decorated in regal opulence, appropriate for a former king. The space is vast, divided by many hanging sheer curtains - much bigger than her own room, though not as big she knows as the king’s chamber that belongs to her uncle.
“Wait here,” Grandfather beckons, and he disappears out of sight.
Skadi is left standing near the center, head turning as she takes in the stories told by the runes painted high on the ceiling, the many trophies claimed from wars older than the generation before hers. The furniture is stately but minimal, and everything is almost intimidatingly tidy.
There’s an air of unreality over everything. It’s hard to imagine Grandfather actually sitting at his desk or standing before his wardrobe, or sleeping in his bed.
She knows he’s gone from the formidable ruler he was when her parents first knew him. Gracefully retired to being a smiling old man who spends afternoons hugging his grandchildren and spoiling them with treats. She will never find him frightening. But there’s nothing to disguise his ancientness, his power even now. He’s a presence that’s larger than life, that even his beloved granddaughter must attend to with proper reverence.
The All-Father steps back into the space, brushing aside a hanging of thick tan colored fabric, and Skadi turns to face him.
Between both his outstretched hands he holds Gungnir, his legendary spear.
As he walks closer Skadi can’t take her eyes away from the weapon, breath caught in her throat. The golden length of its shaft fairly gleams with history, with power - its blade is sharp, its staff is sturdy, and magic lurks promisingly beneath every inch of its surface.
“This has been my companion for many years. It is a tool well-made, seeking only a fitting bearer to its legacy.” He casts his eye along the object that he holds. “I had intended once to leave it to your father. Alas, I think, given the events of history, he would not now accept it,” he remarks sadly. “So I’ve decided that instead it should pass to you.”
“…Me?” Skadi gazes up at him, abashed and amazed.
Gungnir is a weapon of legend equaled perhaps only by Mjolnir itself. It represents everything the All-Father ever accomplished. It is a symbol of Asgard’s glory. Inheriting it is no small honor.
The part of Skadi raised to adhere to tradition wants to protest. If not to one of his sons then surely the All-Father should leave it to his eldest’s yet unborn heir, a future king. But instead he gives it to the granddaughter of his second child?
But Skadi is speechless. Instead of voicing her thoughts she merely stands there, hands upheld, as her grandfather neatly places Gungnir down within her palms.
Her fingers wrap firmly yet gingerly around the long hilt, timidity testing the feel of its weight with great respect and care.
“One day, when I am gone, this will be yours.”
All words are stilled with the significance she feels within this moment. In one gesture he professes his love, confirms his favoritism, and proclaims her warrior.
Her eyes lift slowly to her grandfather’s face as she hands Gungnir back to him. He takes it without hesitance.
“Remember that,” he offers her, mildly. “And, remember also…that what you think begins between you and your father, is only the most recent part of a story that stretches back far further.”
“He still lied to me,” Skadi whispers, unable to put the vehemence into it she might have earlier. “He still did wrong by making a mockery of my entire life.”
“I never said you had to forgive him, Skadi,” Grandfather corrects her. “I only said that you should remember the circumstances. Think on it.”
With dim uncertainty she nods.
Grandfather looks satisfied. An absent smile graces his expression as with one arm he tugs her into an embrace, pressing a kiss to her temple. She hugs him back at the shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut as her face brushes his thick whiskers.
“Now, pardon me for hurrying you, but I must ask you to leave,” he requests, polite but certain. “I have another appointment.”
Skadi is but barely aware of one foot going in front of the other as she makes her way to the door. She feels both heavier and lighter, the weight of a million thoughts the only thing keeping her down as her head threatens to float away in confusion.
At the threshold however a thought strikes her. She turns back.
“Grandfather, did you give me anything else recently? Any other presents?”
He looks at her in puzzlement. “No,” is his simple, frank answer. “Why?”
Skadi laughs weakly, and only says in reply, “No reason.”
She is such a fool. The mask and the staff weren’t from who she thought at all. And they didn’t mean what she thought at first either.
But of course the items were left for her by her father. Who else?
She bows in farewell to her grandfather. After taking her leave she doesn’t go back down the hallway into the rest of the palace on the way to her room.
Instead she goes the other way, the long way, twisting around back outside so that she walks through the grounds directly beneath the All-Father’s balcony. She has much to think about, and she doesn’t want to be cloistered within the palace. She needs some air.
It’s grown much darker now, dusk having settled in. There are torches outside to provide illumination, though she knows from experience she will seem little more than a glimmer in the dark.
It’s not her intention to sneak around hidden but it turns out to be to her favor when she passes back by the exterior of the rooms she was just in and happens to look up.
Two figures are in her grandfather’s room, standing close in conversation near the windows. The night air across the balcony blows the curtains aside, offering for a brief time an almost perfect view. The All-Father’s form is easily recognized. The second is slimmer and taller than him, green and gold-trimmed robes, dark hair-
Father.
Skadi’s breath stills. Though no one looks her way she halts in her path, and ducks partway behind a tree. Fingers pressed against the trunk she peers up, watching intently.
Father and Grandfather face one another, from the look of things the first talking rapidly, the second standing there mostly silent. From their expressions and gestures their conversation is intense, emotional, and very, very personal.
Grandfather appears sorrowful, weary. Father…his words come at times unsteadily, his hands shaking, his face pained. He acts as a supplicant, his manner beseeching.
His daughter has never seen this before. He looks anguished.
A few fading snippets from their voices drift down, barely discernible to Skadi’s ears:
“…sorry, so sorry…I never knew…”
“…hush now…it’s alright, my son…”
There’s not been much incentive lately to respect her father’s privacy. But in light of the things she’s been told earlier, Skadi realizes this is not a moment to be witnessed by anyone.
She peels herself off from the tree and heads speedily away.
*
For the next few days Skadi is quiet, and keeps mostly to herself.
She lies on her bed or sits by the window, and thinks about everything that she’s done. She thinks about her past, about Mom and her grandparents and her siblings. She thinks about her childhood on Asgard. She thinks about what she learned during her time at Cranewood. She thinks about everything she’s ever seen or heard, and then she thinks about the things of the past that her grandfather told her.
Her father raised her to believe a lie. He taught her to practice values he couldn’t uphold himself. He is not the man she thought he was for the past fourteen years of her life.
He’s more complicated than that. But, she’s coming to find he’s more complicated than who she believed he was after finding out the truth, also.
His betrayal changes a lot of things. At first she thought it changed everything - that it negated everything too.
But she’s starting to feel that might not be true.
Time goes by. Skadi still avoids her father’s gaze. She has no idea what Grandfather told him about their conversation, if anything. She has no idea what he knows.
But surely he must sense something.
One day Skadi receives a note in his handwriting. There’s no greeting, no floweriness, no entreaties. Only a simple request: she is to come alone to the vault where Asgard stores its most powerful weapons at a certain time.
She wonders what would happen if she ignores the note, if she didn’t come. But she never considers not going.
With the strangest anticipation hanging over her, pulse thrumming as if she heads off to battle, she makes her way down to the darkened bowels of the palace. The guards outside the vault don’t give her a second look - inside the room is dim and cold, lit only by torches and the few items that glow.
Father sits on the floor at the very end of the single long passage that makes up the room. He’s hunched slightly, legs apart in front of him and folded, forearms resting on his knees. His clothes are, for him, simple: he looks as though he didn’t sleep well and then dressed in a hurry.
He spies her arrival and rises, carefully. “Skadi. Thank you for coming to me.” There is a tremor in his voice, an awareness and fear that she could’ve refused.
Skadi stops when she’s four feet in front of him - closer than for a while she has allowed him to get. “You wanted to see me?” she asks calmly, toneless.
Father nods once, swallowing lightly. He turns and looks back at the wall behind him, over his shoulder. At the great black sword that hangs there, crossed over and over by heavy chains.
“One day I will tell you the story of where that came from. Of the first battle your mother and I ever fought.” He looks back to her. “But today, my child, if you will stand to listen, I’ll tell you a different story instead. Of the object that stood in this same space when I was young, and how it forever changed me.”
“Go on,” Skadi says in a quiet voice, her throat tight, her mouth dry.
Her father takes a step to the side, shuffling almost. Averting his gaze from her and fixing instead on an empty space in the air before him he raises both his hands. Fingers spread he frames them, as if making the shape of a box.
And then as Skadi watches there is a blue glow - he waves his hands and suddenly there is an object where there was nothing before. A rectangle, almost, accompanied by a hiss and rush of frigid air. There are markings that can’t be Asgardian. It’s nothing Skadi recognizes.
With utmost care Father slowly pulls his hands away. The object he summoned remains where it is, hovering, supported by his magic.
Skadi takes a step closer, just one, to take a better look at it. She can feel power - something that sets her nerves on edge. And the air in the vault seems to have grown perceptibly colder.
“This,” her father says, voice suppressed, unsteady but determined, “is called the Casket of Ancient Winters. It was seized in the last great war fought by the All-Father. It was taken, in the last days of battle with the Frost Giants, from Jotunheim.”
Her eyes jump sharply to his face. He seems paler and sickly behind the faint light put out by the Casket.
“This is a Frost Giant weapon?” she asks.
“Yes, and more. It’s a construct of ancient power and can be used to do many things. Once, it was considered the very heart of their world itself.” He lifts a hand again, stopping with fingers curled just above it. His hand, she realizes, is shaking. “Though all I’ve ever learned to do with it is summon bursts of cold.”
“You said it used to be kept here.” Skadi frowns. “That it was once where the Kinslayer’s blade is.”
Father nods. “When I was a boy, my father used to bring me and my brother down here,” he recollects aloud. “He’d stand us in front of it and tell us tales of the villainous Frost Giants, and how one day when we were older it would be our turn to do battle with such monsters.”
Skadi stares up at him, her heart in her throat. She can only wait for him to go on.
Father’s mouth twitches. He finally meets her eyes. “And then when I was older, I found out the truth. At the worst possible time. In the worst possible way.”
He drops his hand and weaves around the Casket, closing the distance between them, halving it. Skadi leans back, tensed, but doesn’t step away.
“I wasn’t a child, as you still are, Skadi. I was a young man. I thought there was nothing about myself left to learn. And I didn’t just find out that someone in my family was not what I’d expected: I learned that I had no family. That my parents were not my parents at all. I was a monster. I was nothing.”
His eyes are wide, and full of sadness, and pleading.
“I don’t ask that you stop hating me. I alone out of all others can understand exactly why you should want to. But please understand me: I wasn’t raised as you and your brothers and sister have been. I was not surrounded by acceptance and daily showings of love. I already felt alone, and different, and I had been raised to think of the Jotun as brutish repulsive creatures, and then I found out I was one.” His voice breaks, halting, and then he goes on, looking sideways. “Can you even begin to imagine?”
Skadi swallows thickly. “Probably exactly like what happened to me and what I felt. Only, worse,” she allows. “Like a hundred times worse.”
Father gives a quaking laugh as he nods again. “Most likely.” He gestures as if he’d like to reach for her, but doesn’t dare to.
“So you see to me being a Jotun will always be marked by horror. I thought having to grow up knowing, the way that I knew, would cause my children unspeakable pain. I only wanted to spare you that pain.” He shuts his eyes. “I was so focused avoiding it, I didn’t think to what might happen should the cycle be repeated.”
“You should have,” is the only reproach Skadi can think to give him, childish and heated but there all the same.
“I know. I should have. And I…I am so, so sorry daughter,” he breathes. “I never wanted to hurt you. It breaks my heart, to think you have suffered as I once suffered. That in my selfishness, and my arrogance,” his teeth show, rough with self-loathing, “I almost caused you to lose your way.”
He steps back again, and she realizes he’s heading closer to the Casket, even though he never takes his eyes off her.
“But you see, I could never accept it. Telling you and the others would mean having to face what I was myself,” Father explains fatalistically. “And I couldn’t. I was too weak. Even now I…” Yet another shake of his head. “I wanted to give you everything. Instead the only thing I passed on to you is the curse of having my blood.”
“What are you doing?” she questions, suddenly afraid.
He looks away from her and at the Casket, face empty as if he stares down off of a cliff.
“This is what I saw, all those years ago, the first time I felt the icy clasp of winter. This is what I became: what I realized no matter what I could never, never fight.”
He touches the side of the Casket. At once his fingers start to change. First grey, then blue, the texture of his skin rippling as it grows thicker and weird, rough markings rise. The coldness is spreading from the Casket to his body. And with it the change continues onward, upward, until everything she can see of his skin is blue and different.
Skadi breathes in slowly, softly. Father turns to her and his eyes are red. His gaze is mournful, and when he speaks his voice is the same.
“This is what I really am.” He looks down at his free hand even as the other remains on the Casket. “What I hate. What will always be my ‘true form’. So much happier am I to hide and to lie.” He lifts his chin and meets her eyes again.
“But here it is. You deserved the truth. So I give you all of it.”
Skadi doesn’t know what to say. Yes, it is frightening to see him this way, if only for how he’s both the same and yet at once so different. And she can tell how much his own body sickens him - what it means, to one raised as he was. But she has never seen a Frost Giant before.
And frankly, she thought they’d be uglier.
Her gaze drifts to the Casket itself. The cold reaches out to her, she almost feels it calling. Like it knows what she is. Like it knows that Jotunheim is part of her legacy.
She hesitates for a moment and then Skadi lifts her own hand, reaching for it.
She feels her father watching her, hears him breathe in with alarm. But he doesn’t try to stop her. And she has to know for herself.
There’s a tingle under her skin. The Casket seems to shudder against her hand; she feels its cold seeping into her body, pulling at her, trying to bring her over to its side. There’s an odd feeling in her head, like some ancient voice is whispering to her, and she can’t decide whether this is sinister or merely strange.
But nothing happens to her hand. She stares down at it, watching, and her skin remains white, not blue.
She looks to her father, questioning, and finds he too watches, face expressionless. He catches her eyes and shakes his head, not having an answer himself.
Skadi takes her hand away from the Casket. Father mirrors her. She hesitates briefly again before going to seize his hand with her own - he sees what she’s doing and lifts both hands up, palm-forward.
She meets his with hers positioned a similar way, palm to palm, her slightly shorter fingers spreading to match his best she can.
They stand there, silently, hands pressed against each other’s.
She can see Father’s skin gradually warming again without the contact of the Casket, his complexion paling and pinking. But nothing is happening to her.
He smiles, faintly. “Well after all, you are half-mortal,” he offers. “It seems to have done the trick necessary to save your appearance. Another reason for me to love your mother.” But he reminds her, “Any who was not Jotun-born would not be able to survive such cold.”
“I know.” Skadi drops her hands and steps back. “And if you weren’t Jotun, you wouldn’t have been able to give birth to me, right? And, you probably wouldn’t have met Mom, either.”
He stares at her, taken aback, not seeming to know what to say. “Skadi…”
She stops him with a shake of her head. She draws a breath. “I would not exist, if you hadn’t been a Frost Giant,” she concludes. “And so I think…it cannot be such a bad thing.”
He’s changed completely back now. The last bit of red leaves his eyes as they go back to that familiar green. The same green eyes that all her brothers have. The same green eyes Skadi sees every time she looks in the mirror.
She can never doubt where she comes from, can she? How fortunate she. She’ll always know exactly who she is.
“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” Skadi tells her father, “but you don’t have to apologize for what you were born as.”
Father bites his lower lip, eyebrows knitting together as he gazes at her. He doesn’t seem to trust what he’s hearing her say is correct.
One of them, she thinks, is probably going to cry. Skadi manages a smile and raises her arms to hug her father, turning her head to the side as she closes the distance between them. Father makes a weak, stifled sound as he embraces her, pressing her to his body tight.
Her father, Skadi at last understands, is not the man she thought he was.
But he is still her father.
He will always be a part of her. It’s useless for her to be angry about that. There’s no point in her trying to fight it.
And, Skadi knows as Father squeezes her in his arms and curls his fingers in her hair, the warmth of his body familiar, his chin tucked down just against the top of her head, she wouldn’t want to fight that, anyway.
*
It is no surprise to anyone that Skadi will grow to be a warrior. One the greatest that Asgard has ever known.
She will roam far and have a great many adventures. She will fight and slay multitudes of enemies. She will see a great many things. She will live a long number of years.
She’ll meet a vast host of people, some of whom will like her, some who will not. Among them she’ll find true companions, warrior comrades, lifelong friends, and even a love or two.
But no matter what she will always return to Asgard. For Asgard is her home. And she does her realm proud by her exploits, which become known far and wide.
They sing and speak and whisper of Skadi in her silver armor trimmed with blue, mounted on a black steed with spear in her hands, silver mask over her face and wind streaming through her long dark hair. Skadi whose eyes gleam brightest in battle. Skadi who is fearless, and laughs for joy while fighting. Skadi who calls Winter to her fingertips. Skadi who is master of the blade. Skadi who is beautiful to behold, but has the most wicked grin.
And when they tell of her she is called by many names. They speak of them, some with awe, some with condescension. But always with respect, no matter how begrudging.
Skadi the Wolf, some murmur. Or Skadi Giant’s Blood, some others sneer. Skadi Longknife. Skadi Winter’s Breath. Skadi Odin’s Gem. And, most commonly: Skadi the Unyielding.
But above all else, her first and truest name is irreplaceable, for it is what she will always be.
For she will always be…Skadi Lokischild.