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The Private Home of Fandral
Asgard, 989 CE
The aroma of the flowers and oils in the water hovered like a daydream as Loki lay perfectly still in the large bath. He relished such days, hidden away from the bustle of the court and his very public family. Such discreet interludes had been ongoing for years here, in his lover's spaces, the only place he felt truly free anymore.
Though the quiet of the room was peaceful, his thoughts had become maddeningly loud. He stared absently at the smooth stone tile of the walls, at the way the sunlight drew an iridescent line across the room and into the water, across his bare skin. He studied his feet and followed them up from calf to thigh, from hip to waist. He glanced at his hand draped over the edge of the elegant tub, as pale as the rest of him; slender and graceful.
Unmanly.
He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the rim. He had long ago noticed the differences between himself and others, most particularly in the men's showers of the cantonment where he and Thor had begun their instruction in combat, and again in the years of a more focused education in Seiðr, among Mother's inner circle of master practitioners—all of them women. There were stretches of time in which Loki, too, was a woman among them.
Mother had taught her how one walked in long dresses and elegant shoes; she had taught Loki how to braid her own hair, and how to weave the stems of fresh flowers through it to hold them perfectly in place; she had taught Loki how to "paint" coloration onto her face with glamour spells, the way that Freya always wore it. She had learned the way her body carried itself differently in its softness and curves, and how it carried the eyes of quite a few men in the court when they thought no one was looking. Her poise was practiced to perfection: the way she held her arms, her chin, her shoulders, her voice. It was with careful study in the tall mirror of Mother's boudoir that she measured her feminine presence against all that she had seen of the other women.
Mother had said it was simply like learning a new and exciting language, but one which the other women already knew, and had begun learning when they were small; Loki wasn't very far behind, but felt the gulf nonetheless, and fought hard to cross it and leave it behind. But just as many of the other men didn't consider him one of their own, it seemed almost as often that the other women didn't either.
An old, tender ache floated to the surface and he chased his thoughts around it, side-stepping dangerously close. It was in those moments that he knew to look away from mirrors, to keep his face inscrutable to others beneath subtle magic. To the precious few who could sense what lay beneath it, there was an even deeper ache at the prospect that they might agree about his appearance, and simply be too polite to say it.
Not that Fandral had ever complained—quite the opposite, in fact. He glanced down at a love bite on his hip and grinned to himself. Their affair had begun as mutual attraction neatly tucked away behind closed doors, a series of decadent trysts to set loose what had been languishing under wraps within each of them, but it had slowly blossomed into an intimacy deeper than casual affection, something neither had dared put into words. And yet, it had long been there in Fandral's crystal blue eyes when they embraced—or rather, when they embraced as men.
It wasn't like he hadn't fawned over her in her lavish green gowns and flowered braids, he in his finely decorated armor and dapper hair. And there was the day he'd brazenly taken her hand and given it a gentlemanly peck like the charming swashbuckler he was. It was easy to wave away in the moment as little more than playful dallying under Thor's watchful eye. He had quite a reputation with the ladies, after all—enough that his friends regularly joked that he'd already won every woman in Asgard.
Except for one.
Loki closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the procession of perfect feminine forms who had graced Fandral's bed, knowing him as only they could. He slid his arms down the inside of the tub and wrapped them around himself beneath the water. The feeling of his own skin against itself was at once jarring and comforting, the shapes of his body familiar, yet… not quite right today. He followed the ridges of his ribs and traced lines across himself down his abdomen. His forearms brushed against the bones of his hips. He arched his feet against the opposite slope of the tub, tilting his ankles back and forth, feeling the tiny bones click. He drew in a deep breath and slid down the slope of the tub into the water and laid there: eyes shut, lungs full, ears ringing.
He could remain right here, he thought, in the muffled stillness below the surface. The rest of them would carry on the business of running a kingdom and it would no longer weigh down upon him, suffocating him so; he would rather suffocate in here, alone. A familiar feeling flickered within him and grew stronger as he listened to his own heartbeat thumping against the cool, smooth surface of the bottom of the tub. His fingers swept slowly over shoulders and collarbone, around throat and jaw; they traced lips and eyelids still pressed shut; they wrapped around rising curves and contours suddenly in rapid flux. Loki was master of more than mere illusion, she was the master of flesh and bone bending to her will.
The petals floating above her parted with the water as Loki sat up and drew in a long, deep breath. She smoothed her hair back from her face, running her fingers through the slick black locks and drawing their length down to her waist. She sat staring wistfully at the ceiling, watching the sunlight flicker in a golden reflection overhead as she absently wove her hair into a long braid. She thought back to the first time she had ever glimpsed herself in the mirror, surrounded by the women of Mother's inner circle. Sometimes she could still feel the warm rush of joy in that magical moment when she'd first heard herself called princess.
She stood up and stepped out of the bathtub, padding across the cool stone floor toward the long mirror beside the sink where she studied her reflection. She was radiant in her sculpted bustline and hips, water glistening in trails down her long and shapely legs. The warm spring breeze tickled lightly across her wet skin, leaving goosebumps that gave her a tiny giggle. She reached for the towel on the dressing chair and paused; it had been such a long time since she had laid eyes upon herself in this shape. Too long. She smiled down at her toes, and wiggled them playfully. Fandral always did have a special fondness for a lady's feet.
There came a creaking from the other side of the wall as Fandral made his way up the stairs, humming to himself. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to the mirror. She laid her hands on either side of her reflection and looked herself in the eyes. They were the same emerald green, though the soul behind them felt lighter, more buoyant than it had in ages.
Fandral's humming had turned to whistling an old favorite folk tune as he drew nearer. Loki blinked at herself once more, then turned to the door, her hand resting on the knob for a brief moment. She took a breath and with one swift motion, she opened the door.
Fandral was milling about just out of sight, but his footsteps were heading her way. She stepped into the doorway and posed with her hands laid on either side of the frame. He turned the corner and stopped abruptly, instantly turning his face away, apologetically.
"Forgive me, I hadn't meant to …" he trailed off, turning aside with his eyes upward.
She remained in the doorway, watching him closely.
"Am I upon the ceiling, Fandral?" Her tone, though playful, did little to hide her nervousness.
He sighed, feeling a bit foolish. His gaze dropped to meet hers and softened as he regarded her.
"No. You are not."
"Why do you look away?" she asked, tilting her head.
"I did not wish to be disrespectful," he answered, and she knew him well enough to believe him. Fandral was a lot of things, but he was honest, and above all else he was a gentleman. She smiled sweetly.
"It is not disrespectful if I have invited you to see me." She shifted her weight to one hip.
He smiled gently and lowered his eyes to take her in—all of her, slowly, entirely. A grin started on his face upon noticing that morning's love bite on her hip. She glanced aside, only barely stopping herself from fidgeting in the long moment. When she looked back at him, his gaze rose to meet hers again. She raised an eyebrow expectantly.
He stepped in closer and cupped her face tenderly in his hands.
"You are perfect," he uttered softly, and touched a thumb across her cheek. "You always were."
She studied his eyes and found nothing but sincere adoration. A wave of euphoria rose within her and she smiled shyly. He leaned into her, intimately pressing their foreheads together, and kissed her softly. It was the gentlest his hands had ever been, and she melted into his touch.