As my grandfather used to say: "Live and learn — at least you won't die stupid." I decided that as long as I was here in Asgard, I might as well make the most of it and absorb knowledge like a sponge. Magic wasn't physics or chemistry to be crammed for an exam — it was genuinely interesting. Endlessly so.
Settling in comfortably, I opened the first thick tome and —
Immediately understood nothing.
No, seriously. The text was written in such elaborate, convoluted language, layered with philosophical tangents and references to ancient events I'd never heard of, that my brain started overheating within the first page. "Illusion is the reflection of truth in the waters of memory.""To create an image, one must become the void through which light flows." What was this nonsense? I wasn't sitting through a lecture on quantum physics here. And honestly, quantum physics would have been cleaner. This read like my great-grandfather had gotten thoroughly drunk with a group of Chinese cultivation monks and their collective wisdom had produced... this.
I set that one aside and picked up the next. Creating Realistic Images. Same thing, different words. The author spent ten pages explaining the importance of "feeling the soul of an object" before attempting to copy it. I flipped to the middle — pure poetry, not a single concrete example anywhere.
— Deeply disappointing, — I muttered to myself, pushing the book aside. — How is anyone supposed to learn from this?
But I didn't give up. I told myself it was a test, that the next one would be different.
Concealment and Transformation was worse. It opened with so many warnings about how badly you could hurt yourself with an incorrectly cast spell that I became genuinely afraid to try anything at all. "An improperly applied concealment may result in merging with the object of imitation." What did that even mean? If I tried to disguise myself as a chair, I'd become the chair?
After about an hour in the library, working through book after book, I arrived at an uncomfortable conclusion: understanding any of this required a foundation I didn't have yet. Basic knowledge that Frigga was presumably supposed to give me through her lessons, at a proper pace. And here I was, as usual, charging ahead of the cart.
I closed the last book with a heavy sigh and stared at the stack I'd accumulated.
On one hand, hauling all of this back to my chambers was going to be exhausting. On the other hand, if I left them here, someone might take them, or the servants might reshelve them, and I'd never find them again. Better to have them nearby for when I was ready — when I actually knew enough to make sense of them.
— Right, — I told myself. — You're coming with me, just in case.
I gathered the stack — roughly forty centimeters of books — barely kept hold of it, and trudged back to my chambers. I nearly dropped the entire thing twice on the way there, catching it each time by pressing it against my chest and hoping for the best. The guards I passed along the way said nothing, just thumped their fists to their breastplates in salute. I nodded carefully back at each of them and kept moving.
I made it. Dumped the books on the floor beside my bed, lit several of the candle-lamps that ran on what I could only assume was Asgardian magic, and settled in for one more attempt. Maybe evening air made reading easier.
It did not. Thirty minutes later the text was no clearer and my eyes had started losing the battle with gravity. I set the book down and stared at the ceiling, drifting into vague, unfocused thought.
Then someone knocked at the door.
I sat up, already relaxed — who else would come at this hour except family or a servant?
— Come in.
The door opened and two women entered, dressed simply but neatly. One carried a large towel, the other two pitchers of water trailing visible steam.
— Your Highness, — the one with the towel bowed. — We have prepared your bath. Shall we bring it through?
I practically jumped off the bed.
A bath. Of course. After a full day of running, training, magic, and futile reading — a bath was exactly what was missing from my life.
— Yes, please, — I said, trying to keep my voice royally composed while feeling anything but.
The servants moved quickly, disappearing and returning with a procession of pitchers and basins. The adjoining room held a small bathing chamber — a stone room with a recessed pool in the floor, into which they began pouring the steaming water.
I looked in and was immediately stunned.
The recess was large enough to swim in. This wasn't a bath. It was a pool. The water smelled extraordinary — herbs I couldn't quite place, except for what I was fairly certain was chamomile drifting through the rest.
— Your Highness, the water is ready, — one of the servants bowed, while the others who had carried the pitchers filed out silently. — May we assist you in undressing?
— No, no, — I waved both hands. — I'm fine, thank you. You're dismissed.
The women exchanged a glance but didn't argue. Another bow, and they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them. Finally alone, I undressed and climbed in.
Unbelievable.
The hot water hit my skin and I went completely boneless. It took about ten seconds to adjust, and then I simply... stopped being a person with problems. Lying back in that small stone pool, I stared up at the golden ceiling and thought, with great sincerity, about how genuinely good it was to be a prince.
Twenty minutes later, when the water had cooled enough to remind me it existed, I washed quickly, climbed out, dried off with a towel so soft it seemed unreasonable, and pulled on the clean night-shirt someone had thoughtfully left on the bench. Back in the bedroom I put out the lights and climbed into bed.
— Tomorrow there's another lesson with Mom, — I whispered to the ceiling. — Which means I'll learn something new. And piece by piece, I'll become the best possible Loki there ever was. — A quiet laugh. — Not a bad plan.
Sleep came fast, deep, and entirely dreamless.
Morning arrived as light through the curtains — or whatever passed for sunlight in Asgard. I opened my eyes and knew immediately: I had slept well. Body light, head clear, mood excellent. I rolled out of bed, padded over to the balcony and looked out at Asgard in the morning. Golden spires, green gardens, a starred sky with light drifting clouds. Beautiful.
I put myself together quickly — washed my face, cleaned my teeth with some Asgardian powder that tasted like chalk with aspirations, dressed in fresh clothes. I was in the middle of doing something about my hair, trying to get it to lie flat instead of falling into my eyes, when someone knocked at my door with very little restraint.
I already had a reasonable suspicion who it was.
— Come in.
The door swung open and there stood my brother, in person, looking unreasonably cheerful for this hour, grinning from ear to ear, holding something wrapped in cloth.
— Loki! — Thor announced, barely through the doorway. — Good morning, brother! Did you sleep? I've been up for an hour already, been training! — He came in, looked around, spotted the stack of books in the corner, and grimaced visibly. — Those books again? You still haven't gotten it out of your system?
— Good morning, Thor, — I said, not taking the bait. — The books are fine and they don't bite. What brings you here this early?
He came closer and unwrapped the cloth, revealing a cluster of fresh rolls — golden-brown, crisp-edged, still warm enough to be steaming slightly. The smell hit me before I'd even registered what I was looking at.
— Here, — he said, holding one out. — Grabbed them from the kitchen. I know you like them.
I took it. Bit into it. Soft, warm, honey in the center.
Genuinely excellent.
— Thank you, brother, — I said, with my mouth still partially full. — Now. What do you actually want?
Realizing the roll had not bought him the goodwill he'd been hoping for, Thor dropped onto my bed — which creaked in protest — and crossed one leg over the other.
— So, Loki, — he began, and there was something conspiratorial in his voice now. — You said yesterday I should come to a lesson with Mother. I was thinking... maybe I actually will? She looked at me a certain way when we crossed paths last evening. Like I'd done something wrong.
I stared at him.
Thor. The Thor who considered magic a complete waste of time. Voluntarily considering attending a lesson.
— Are you serious? — I asked, finishing the roll.
— Well... — he shifted. — It's not that I want to learn your magic. But I like seeing Mother in a bad mood even less. Maybe I'll just watch. See what you two actually do in there.
I thought it over. Bringing Thor to a lesson was a calculated risk — he would make noise, get distracted, potentially break something. On the other hand, if the golden oaf caught even a fraction of genuine interest in magic, it would be worth it. And I had promised to bring him.
— Fine, — I agreed. — Let's go.
Thor nodded enthusiastically, bounced off the bed and fell into step behind me.
— You know what? — he said suddenly, eyes lighting up with the particular brightness that meant he'd had an idea. — Let's pick flowers for Mother on the way! From the garden! She loves flowers, and we'll walk in with bouquets, she'll be so happy!
I looked at him and decided that, in principle, it wasn't a terrible idea. Frigga did love her garden. The one small issue being that the flowers there were hers — she planted and tended them herself. Still, I doubted she'd be angry if we brought some. Especially since they'd be for her.
— Alright, — I agreed, finishing the last bite of roll. — But quickly. She'll be waiting.
We left my chambers and headed for the garden. Along the way Thor talked without stopping — about training, about Baldur, about a race they'd run yesterday where he'd beaten everyone. I listened with half an ear, nodded at appropriate intervals, and thought about other things.
The garden greeted us with color and fragrance. Dew still sat on the petals, bees moved lazily between the flowers. Thor and I split up and began collecting. I went for the blue bell-shaped ones and the white ones that resembled lilies. Thor went straight for the loudest colors — reds and oranges. Five minutes later we each had an impressively large bouquet.
— Well? — Thor held his up. — Beautiful?
— Beautiful, — I confirmed, though his looked more like a small explosion at a flower market. — Let's go before we're late.
We arrived at the gazebo to find Frigga already there. She sat at the table, drinking something herbal with perfect composure, and watched us approach with a quiet smile. When she saw what we were carrying — both of us, arms full of flowers, expressions somewhere between proud and sheepish — her eyes went wide for a moment, and then the smile broke into something warmer.
— Good morning, my dears, — she said as we ran up and thrust the bouquets toward her. — Oh — what's this? For me?
— For you, Mom! — Thor shouted. — Loki and I wanted to make you happy!
— We wanted to do something nice, — I added, feeling slightly awkward about it now.
Frigga took both bouquets, brought them to her face, and breathed in. Her eyes went bright. She was genuinely moved — anyone could see it.
— What wonderful boys I have, — she said softly. — Thank you, my darlings. This is... very sweet.
She smelled the flowers a moment longer. Then her expression shifted, very slightly, into something that was still gentle but noticeably more pointed.
— One small thing, though, my loves, — she said. — These came from my garden, didn't they?
Thor and I exchanged a look. I felt my ears go warm.
— ...Yes, — I admitted. — We meant well.
— I know you did, — Mother sighed, and there was no anger in it, just a quiet kind of patience. — You wanted to make me happy, and that is a beautiful thing. But this garden is my small treasure. I tend these flowers every day, I water them, I talk to them. And now that you've picked them, they'll wilt — and it will be a long while before new ones grow in their place.
I felt genuinely bad. I should have thought of this when Thor first suggested the idea. She put real care into this garden.
— I'm sorry, Mom, — I said first. — We didn't think. It won't happen again.
— Sorry, Mom, — Thor echoed, and he meant it. — We just wanted to do something good.
Frigga smiled, reached out, and pulled us both into a hug. Thor made a small satisfied sound. I felt the warmth of it spread through me and thought, not for the first time: no matter how old you are, being hugged by your mother is one of the better things the universe has to offer.
— I'm not angry, — she said. — I'm glad to have such thoughtful sons. Only next time — if you'd like to bring me flowers, pick the ones growing beyond the garden. There are plenty out there, and they belong to no one.
— Understood, — I nodded.
— Deal! — Thor announced.
We settled into the gazebo. Frigga conjured a vase from the air — literally from thin air — arranged both bouquets in it, and set it on the table.
— So then, Thor. You've decided to join us today?
— Yeah, — he said. — I'll have a look at what you two get up to. But I'm not doing any magic myself. That's not for me.
— That's perfectly fine, — she said warmly, giving his golden head an affectionate ruffle. — Just sit and listen. Perhaps something will be useful to you after all.
The second lesson was quiet and unhurried. Frigga taught me to feel the currents of energy — not just to produce light, but to direct it, to increase and decrease its intensity, to change its shape. Thor sat in his corner and, remarkably, didn't cause any problems. He even made small sounds of interest a couple of times when something came out particularly well. By the end of the session I could produce not yesterday's shy flicker, but a proper glowing orb that floated above my palm and shifted through colors like a slow sunrise.
— Well done, Loki, — Frigga praised. — You're progressing very quickly. A few more sessions like this and you'll be ready to begin illusions.
And so an entire year passed in lessons, training, books, and experiments.
I absorbed it all. Learned to feel magic, direct it, make it part of myself rather than something I was reaching for. And the results, by the end of that year, were genuinely impressive.
In terms of illusions — I could now produce realistic images. People, animals, objects. They didn't hold for long — five to ten minutes before the details started to blur — but for a start, it was more than sufficient. I could make a second Loki appear beside me, make my arm seem longer than it was, make myself appear to be someone else entirely. Not physically — that was still a long way off — but visually. And visually was more than enough.
In terms of transmutation — I'd learned to alter the form and properties of objects. Make stone soft as a pillow, turn water to ice with a touch, change the color of my clothes. That last one had led to an incident I would be hearing about for the foreseeable future, courtesy of my beloved brother.
It happened during a lesson at the gazebo — one of the times I'd managed to drag Thor along again. He'd come a few more times over the year, mainly, as he called it, to watch my "tricks." We were sitting in the usual spot, Frigga explaining the finer details of working with physical matter. Thor was in his corner pretending to pay attention while clearly thinking about food or combat or both.
— Loki, — Mother said, with her usual patient warmth, — try altering the structure of this piece of fabric. Make it softer, or harder — whichever comes naturally.
I focused on the small piece of cloth in front of me. Pictured the fibers pulling tight, becoming denser. Found the current of energy and directed it toward the fabric, and then —
— WHOA! — Thor launched himself out of his seat. — Loki, what did you — are you out of your mind?!
I opened my eyes and looked down at myself.
My clothes had changed.
Where my usual shirt and trousers had been, there was now a dress. Long, green, gold-embroidered, with wide sleeves that draped elegantly over my hands. A proper Asgardian gown. A women's one.
I stared.
How? I'd been concentrating on the cloth in front of me, not on what I was wearing. How had the magic jumped to —
Frigga's expression went through surprise, then a very visible attempt at composure, and then she pressed her hand over her mouth and lost the battle entirely. Thor, meanwhile, had no such internal conflict.
— I can't — I can't breathe — — he wheezed, doubled over, clutching his sides. — LOKI. Look at yourself! Look at you! You're beautiful! A real princess! Mom, look, it actually suits him —
— Shut up, Thor! — I snapped, feeling my face go completely red. I grabbed the skirt, trying to find some way to remove it, but the fabric sat on me like it had been fitted. — It was an accident!
— Of COURSE it was! — he howled. — No one could plan that! Mom — can he just wear this from now on? It genuinely suits him! Mom, tell him!
Frigga, apparently pushed past her limits by that last comment, laughed — quiet, but completely sincere.
— Loki, — she managed, — breathe. It truly is an accident. You redirected the energy toward the wrong object. It happens when experience is still developing.
— It HAPPENS?!
— Yes. Now reverse the spell, — she advised. — You know how.
I concentrated again. Pictured my normal clothes. Directed the energy —
And a moment later I was back in trousers and a shirt.
Thank everything that exists.
— Loki, — Thor continued, wiping tears from his face, — remember this. If you ever want to be a girl, now you know how. And you genuinely looked good, brother. Honest. That's a sincere compliment.
— Go away, — I muttered. But despite myself, I was almost smiling. From the outside, objectively, it had been catastrophically stupid.
— Don't worry, sweetheart, — Mother said, running a hand gently through my hair. — This is experience. It teaches you to be more careful. And besides... — a small pause, — green really does suit you.
— Thank you, Mom, — I said. — Truly. What a comfort.
Thor brought it up at every opportunity for weeks after that. Every time we crossed paths he would give my outfit a long, theatrical look of admiration and ask whether I was considering another fitting. My standard response was a solemn promise to turn his hammer into a chicken the moment he got one.
And that was, more or less, how we lived.