She’d heard it.
Though it was barely audible, something between a hiss and a murmur, she’d heard her name. She spun round and eyed the cavernous room. Her eyes traveled along the wooden shelves that lined one wall, filled from floor to ceiling with dusty tomes that only the second prince had the patience and focus to peruse. On the other side of the room was his bed, draped in silks of green and gold. She had found herself in that very bed numerous times before—be it after a night of passion or quiet, relaxed conversation—and it had just been them, Sif and Loki, and all of the expectations and mores of the royal court melted away in the dark. She sighed, halting the thoughts that had begun to sharpen in her memory, for they belonged in the past. The second prince’s bedchamber had been uninhabited for weeks now (ever since that day when they had mourned; she had mourned) and she swallowed against the lump building in her throat. She noticed that the sheets of parchment which had perpetually remained scattered on his wooden desk were now piled in a neat stack. His throwing knives had been propped up on one shelf; his helmet sat, gold and glinting and oddly melancholy, beside them. Perhaps the queen had requested that her younger son’s bedchamber be tidied up. Perhaps the royal family was beginning to move on; perhaps life in Asgard was falling back into some state of normalcy. Perhaps she should, as well.
As she made her way towards the double-doors, her eyes caught a glimpse of one of the many nooks of the room. These spaces, tucked in the corners and enveloped in shadows, were one of his favorite spots to hide away and think. She let her eyes focus on the darkness, but looked away—her skin felt cold and prickly and something deep between her lungs throbbed and hurt and the lump in her throat was threatening to come back.
The god of mischief had absolutely loved to play his games. And she was haunted.
