Primping

This flash piece is a rough draft of a scene from the prequel novel of The Prophecies of Ragnarok, a Norse mythology based new adult series I'm currently writing with Meri Benson. It may or may not end up in the final version of the novel. This was also written in response to 8Letters' #31Letters challenge, an invitation to write every day for the whole month of January.

Here are the shorts we've written so far for the prequel, in chronological order:

• Birthright
• Ice Queen
• Quiet Time
• Tyr Lends A Hand
• Big Sister, Big Brother
• Just Friends
• Admittance
• Prison Break
• Escaping Asgard
• Marriage Plans
• New Normal
• Hunting Trip
• Night Out
• Waltz
• Treason
• Reporting In
• Escaping Asgard Redux
• Brother's Keeper
• Primping (this story)
• Final Hour
• Better Off Gone
• Resistance and Steps
• Forsaken
• Revenge Served With Rage
• Goodbye, Good Friend
• Inheritance
• A Winter's Bargain
• Death Finds All
• Homecoming
• Reconnection
• The Hour of the Wolf

Hotel Fen, the first published book of the series, follows after this point.

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In Norse mythology, Hel is said to preside over an underworld realm where she receives a portion of the dead. She is referred to as a daughter of Loki, and is described as having been appointed by the god Odin as ruler of a realm of the same name, located in Niflheim. Her appearance is described as half blue and half flesh-colored, and further as having a gloomy, downcast appearance.

Hodr is the blind son of Odin and Frigg, who is tricked and guided by Loki into shooting a mistletoe arrow which was to slay the otherwise invulnerable Baldr, his twin brother.

(Wikipedia)

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Hodr had insisted on braiding her hair. He'd always done it for her, ever since they were children, and he wasn't about to stop doing it on one of the most important days of their lives. He'd gotten looks from her family and the servants for it, yet they hadn't been mocking or disdainful, contrary to what he would have received from his brothers and parents. There was amusement, sure, but their glances were mostly a mix of disbelief and appreciation. He couldn't fault them for thinking that all the Aesir were good at were hacking things with swords and humping anything that moved.

Loki, in particular, had hummed thoughtfully before grinning warmly at him and clapping his shoulder. It felt very strange. Almost... fatherly. Not that he had a lot of experience with that, since he was practically invisible to his own father, shadowed until his last moments in Asgard by his twin.

He shook his head a little to clear his thoughts, and returned to his work. It wasn't too complicated a hairstyle, or at least he'd done it so many times before that he could do it with his eyes closed. But he, too, wanted to savor the moment — even if he could already see Geiravor wrinkling her nose through the mirror she'd held up with a hand. "Patience, love," he teased, pinning up the last loose strands of her blond hair.

"You're just going to mess it up later anyway."

He laughed, resting his chin on her shoulder and kissing her cheek while his arm went around her to pick up the crown of silverfrost on the table. That she'd insisted on. It had been how he'd discovered that she'd kept a little garden of their flowers in the abandoned fortress that had become her castle. It was no wonder she'd been wearing them on her hair when they ran into each other in Alfheim. "Not until the feast is over, unless you want a little action before we go."

She elbowed him in the stomach playfully, but it was sharp and unexpected enough to make him yelp. "That is no way to speak to your queen."

He gave her a look through his reflection in the mirror, his gaze slipping to and lingering for a moment on the bruises and love marks on her neck that she hadn't bothered to cover up. "But you love it, wife," he quipped, smirking against her skin as trailed kisses down the side of her throat to her shoulder.

He'd told her that they had no need of a formal ceremony. He'd been calling her his wife ever since that first night in Alfheim anyway, and she hadn't once objected. Yet her father had advised them otherwise — not for themselves, but for the people. It was complicated enough that he was Aesir; the Jotnar needed an assurance that he hadn't been sent by Odin to undermine them and destroy them from the inside, or that he wasn't some power-hungry princeling with an agenda of his own. And it was especially important because Geiravor fully intended to declare him king, not just her consort.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that, either. He'd long resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to be anywhere near inheriting Asgard, not with Odin still firmly on the throne after all these years, and Baldr and his future sons after him. Married off to hold a territory for his father, maybe, but he would be a pawn more than anything. But this, now, was different. Geiravor wanted him to lead, not just to look pretty by her side. He wasn't sure he'd ever done anything to deserve it, to deserve her.

She reached out behind him to slap his ass. Laughing, he pulled back to finish his work on her hair, gently setting down the flower crown on her head and pinning it in place.