The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-In-Training || Loki x Reader

Chapter 36

"A month away?" Your eyes dart around to meet those of the remaining contestants, before returning to Lady Amara. For confirmation. Because there is no way she actually said what you thought you just heard. "That is...away, away?"

Normally, your modernisms and teen cadence, even faint as they have become over the years, would bring a hint of distaste to Lady Amara's face. Now, though, she smiles, almost... fondly? "Yes, Lady (Y/N), away away. His Majesty has come to the conclusion that he was ill-advised in disallowing you from leaving the premises, vast as they may be. Balls are excellent practice for socializing in a formal context, but he and I agreed that you would benefit from a chance to practice your royale training outside of the..the..."

"Bubble?" Rosa mutters. You can't help but snort, in spite of yourself. Lady Amara shoots you both a gently chastising look.

"Protection of the palace. You will be accompanied by guards, of course—"

"Of course."

This time, the look she gives you is a bit more severe. "However, this will offer you an opportunity to interact with the general public and world leaders, alike."

There seems to be a general sense of speechlessness among the four of you as the full weight of this news sinks in. You're leaving the palace. As Lady Amara pointed out, the palace grounds are wicked large, but still, you're leaving. That being said...

Rhea speaks up, as though she had read your mind. "Where exactly will we be going?"

Lady Amara smiles again. "Home."

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You have less than three hours until your transportation leaves for New York, and your suitcase is still empty.

It's not that you haven't packed—you did, last night. Six times, to be exact. And every time, without fail, you found yourself dumping the contents of your suitcase back on your bed, on the chaise-lounge, on the ground. Gotta clean that up before I leave, too, or Meg is going to murder me when I get back. Knowing Meg, she probably wouldn't even mention it, but you'd still feel bad if you left her an entire floor of heavy dresses in need of putting away.

The dresses. They're part of the problem. You're expected to pack for several weeks: two at home, one spent visiting the hometowns of the other girls, and one attending various conferences elsewhere around the globe. You've grown accustomed to the feel and look of a full corset-and-petticoat getup, but since the announcement was made of your impending departure, you've become acutely aware of how out-of-place all of your current clothing would be in your small-ish, very modern, normal town.

Normal. Not that you fit that label, anymore. You pray that you're wrong, that you'll be able to slide seamlessly into your former place for two weeks, but you can't escape what you know in your gut to be true. After two years away, two weeks home seems both heartbreakingly short and impossibly long. You're going to see Carlie's growth spurt and new teeth in person, hear Mom and Dad's voices, see some old friends—the new semester is about to start, but you're sure you'll get to at least see Steven after the school day ends. Truth be told, you're not sure what you're going to do at home, with your whole family in school (in Erik's case, away at school) or at work. Lady Amara clearly wants all four of you to practice some diplomacy skills, but there isn't much conflict in need of resolving in the ultra-suburban landscape of home.

Thinking of suburbia brings you back to the issue at hand: clothes. Should you just wear your least ostentatious clothes, pack nothing, and just raid your old closet when you get home until you have a chance to go shopping for clothes that fit? That seems silly, though. You can't go with suitcases full of presents and food and no clothes—completely impractical.

And, if you're being honest, you would almost miss the corset and underskirts.

Almost.

Three taps at the open door. "You do realize it is three in the morning?"

"Shit." By the time you've whirled around, you're expecting to see him there, but your heart is still pounding from the initial surprise. "Sorry. I've been up a while."

"Clearly." He nods at the heaps of velvet and lace strewn across your floor. "Any particular reason why you felt the need to eviscerate your wardrobe?"

You sigh. "Sorry." He isn't wrong in pointing it out. If anything, you're grateful for the reminder—at your current pace, you might as well start cleaning up the mess now. You pick up the closest gown, fluff out the skirt, and cross to hang it up to the closet. You notice him following suite, and while half of you is wondering, a bit grumpily, why he can't just snap his fingers and whoosh them back to your closet in an instant, the other half is relieved. After all, more hands makes the work move more quickly. "Thanks."

"Of course."

You work silently for a while, hanging things side-by-side, in your best approximation of the color-coding system Meg seems to use when she cleans. When the task is finally finished, you trudge back into the main room and climb up into your bed, but instead of lying down, you remain perched on the edge, head hanging.

"I cannot tell if you're simply exhausted, or if you're truly that reluctant to go home."

When you don't answer, he walks over and, with a tilt of his head, seems to ask if he can sit down next to you. You nod, and he does.

"Going home can be difficult, especially after what must feel like a rather long time."

"Yeah." You wish you had a less lackluster answer, but the one word feels like all you can muster, in spite of the emotions that are threatening to overflow. You don't want him to leave, though. The thought of going to sleep, of every second closer you're getting to your departure time, seems near unbearable.

You voice none of this, but he seems to understand. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"I'm terrified." It escapes in a whisper, spoken into the dim, candlelit air in front of you, not to him. In your peripheral vision, though, you see that he is looking directly at you.

This is dangerous. Middle-of-the-night conversations are different than talking during the day, different than evening strolls and other quasi-dates, even different than teaming up to defeat a small squadron of murderous, shapeshifting intruders. More intimate. The lack of sleep has left you loose-lipped and overemotional, and there's no telling what hidden secrets you may spontaneously confess, to Loki or to yourself. Either option is scary.

But he's here. And he's listening. And he cares.

On impulse, you spin yourself around and arrange yourself in a cross-legged position, facing him straight on. "I don't know how to do this. How to go home after so long." After having them circle your head for hours, it is such a relief to speak the words out loud. "I'm not the same person I was when I left, and I don't...I just..."

He doesn't interrupt, he just nods gently, prompting. Encouraging. The gesture, however tiny, gives you the courage you need to say what comes next:

"It feels like there are days where I don't even recognize the person I used to be. If I don't even know myself anymore, how is my family going to seem? How will I recognize them?" " And then, even more quietly, "What if they can't recognize me?"

"I hardly think your physical appearance has changed that drastically."

It's exactly the kind of smart-ass comment you would have expected from him, even this late/early, and it's exactly the kind of thing you needed to hear. "You know what I mean."

"I do."

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From then until the sun has risen, he never leaves your side.