Chapter Text
The boy’s name is Hazzoula. His grandmother’s name is just that, Grandmanme.
“But Miss Grandmanme to you.”
“So noted.”
He can’t learn much in a twenty minute crash course, not even the basics. But he’s not interested in the basics.
“Mwen dezole.” Hazzoula instructs.
“Me wen de sol ae.”
Hazzoula cringes but tries not to discourage his student. “Closer. One more time.”
Loki tries again but is interrupted with a tap on his shoulder from Miss Grandmanmae. He listens to her and wonders if old age will add the same depth and smoke to your voice as it has hers.
He wants to find out.
“She wants to know why you’re so keen on learning this.” Her grandson interprets. “Do you have business in the Southlands?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Do you know what it's like there?” Hazzoula asks with no words from his grandmother to translate.
“You don’t?”
“Everything I know is from her stories. I was born here. In Asgard.”
“And your grandmother?”
“There. So was my mom. Grandmanme came here with her forever ago. Long before me.”
Loki turns to the old woman, having an inkling she understands him. “How did you end up here?”
Her shoulders shake with the sigh, but there’s fire under the smoke of her voice when she speaks.
“War took her family, her wife, and her livelihood,” her grandson translates. “Everyone and everything except her baby: my mom, and a lump of gold she managed to snatch before the rebels came. She says a man in a black cloak saved her and when she tried to show her gratitude by giving him the gold he didn’t take it. “I’m a king. I’ve got too much gold. I’d rather have a daughter as pretty and brave as yours.”
You are, he thinks.
“She’s asking if your business in the Southland is with the king? If you have his cloak surely you...”
“Tell her he is dead.”
The grandmother does not need translation to understand him, her wrinkled face folds deeper in her sadness.
He’s not given to comfort the grieving, nor telling the truth. But for her, your countrywoman, he does both. “But I can say this: his wish was fulfilled. He had a daughter and she is pretty and brave and foolish and stubborn and kind and loving. She exceeds the sum of her father’s wishes.”
He remembers the face you made, the lost smile you wore when you wrapped him in your father’s cloak. He too remembers that face folding like crumpled parchment, warm smile freezing with his icy words.
“And she exceeds the sum of my own worth.”
Miss Grandmanmae laughs, rich and warm like the Southlands. She speaks to him, and Hazzoula need not assist.
“You are sick. Go. Mend words. Be healed.”
He smirks, suspicions about her language skills confirmed.
“Did I not also say she’s stubborn? I don’t think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ will…”
“What you do, matters. What you say, matters. How you say matters too: mwen dezole.” She taps him on his chest, fingers poking his heart in time with the syllables.
“Mwen dezole.” he repeats, tongue and lips finally grasping pronunciation. It’s high, mixed in with the nasal sound of his native Asgardian but the old woman smiles anyway.
Satisfied.
**
You are easy to find.
You’re haggling with a recalcitrant merchant knowing full well this bushel of greens is worth more, also knowing full well your princely coin purse has disappeared and you can’t afford it unless he returns.
But he has returned.
“Give her what she wants.” He says, dropping the gold in their hands.
They do.
Your eyes don't quite make it to his face. They stop somewhere near the ties to your father's cloak, maybe even his chin and lips before they snap back to swirling snow piling up around them. “I thought you were gone.”
“I was.”
“Where’d you go?”
His nerves sour his stomach. That matriarch thinks his pronunciation good enough, but you may not. What if time in her new home has dulled her ears to the sound of the old? Would you know? Would you care? The uncertainty frightens him in a small way, exposes him to the elements of your approval, your judgement.
Vulnerability is a sickness he’s never been inoculated to.
But his medicine, he takes as he gives you an ugly lump of gold.
“ Mwen dezole .” He says.
You blink twice, three times, startled before you find your words to reply.
“Speak you Southron?”
He shakes his head. “I have no idea what you just said.”
You laugh. Loudly. But there’s no derision in it, only warmth. Only a fire that old age will smoke in time. It sparks a fire in him, warms through to his bones. The snow and cold never bothered him, but your laugh could keep him warm for the season. His life.
“Where did you--?” A cough cuts off your question. You ask again. “How did you--?”
Another cough stops it short.
You open your mouth to speak again but only a ragged, dry cough escapes you. Your face contorts, you cover your mouth but you cough so hard you reach for your chest.
Then you double over, dropping your bag of herbs and incense and gold.
“Princess!”