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The Queen's Heir: [then] life-bringer

Title: The Queen's Heir
Rating: M/R
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe/Norse Mythology/Tolkien's Hobbit
Pairings: Fárbauti/Laufey
Genre: Adventure/Mythology/Family
Summary: then: Something more than just our ability to travel between the Realms was stolen from us this fateful day. This day, when we lost the war, I lost also my son. And I mean to have him back. No matter what it takes.
I am looking.
now: Thrown into a world not my own, I can no longer tell wrong from right, night from day. Two months I spent in the care of the goblins under the mountain. Two months I cultivated my hatred of Odin and spurned all that I had once loved.
I am lost.
WARNINGS: Medieval-typical violence, blood 'n' guts, obscure cultural practices that might squick you out a bit, disturbing imagery, references to violence, abuse, torture, starvation

She is not speaking with her consort. Again. Each member of her loyal retinue has given her an arch look, and the elder members have even shaken their heads and clucked at her. She supposes she is being slightly unreasonable, but the male inspires her to fury as equally as affection.

She had wanted to kill the stupid male when she discovered that she was finally, after ten years of trying and hoping, with child. On the eve of battle.

She has long forgiven him, though, because it is hardly actually his fault that her firstborn desired to be a war-child. She has wondered, idly, if this means the babe will also be of warrior caste? It wouldn’t surprise her; it is, after all, incredibly rare that a female birth her single mage-child first. Usually, the midwives say, the magics need to grow slowly, over time, through each warrior babe, until finally the womb is ripe for a magelet.

(Only the Mage-Queens of old, beautiful and powerful and terrible, are said to have such an abundance of magic that they bear their heirs before they bear their warrior-children.)

Then she has the vision.

-ice cracking, blood splattering, a great, triumphant cry-

-the words - my son my beloved my firstborn my magelet-

-you have destroyed us you have saved us-

-i love you come home to me-

Her child will be her heir, and bring upon their people a great wrath of destruction which will be their salvation.


She wakes from slumber and does not know why. Her consort has taken the treaty she wrote up away to the ministers, to the enemy. They are defeated, but the Old Man is gracious enough to allow them to draw up some of the terms of surrender. Manipulative old bastard whose father was a deep-water eel and whose mother was a snow-vulture who laid with a mangy cur of a snow-wolf.

Her midwife sits in the corner, eyeing her with a queer look in her eye.

Then she feels again what woke her.

The babe is coming. The midwife merely nods before ringing for her assistant, speaking in the young female’s ear for a few moments before her other assistant comes to help the old female prepare the Queen for birth.

Hours later she is cursing the very existence of her consort. She hates him with every fiber of her being and he is not here. She is angry, so very angry. She will flay the flesh from his bones and make him eat it! Surely his blood will be a very nurturing supplement to her milk for her baby.

Some few hours later, and her anger has birthed her a magelet. The amount of magic that accompanies the baby's first cry is astounding - she has done it. Her magic and her anger and all the pent-up grief and rage of war has birthed her a magelet, before her body has even attempted to prepare the way with warrior-children.The midwife places the babe in her arms and she feeds her beautiful magelet as she passes the afterbirth, dark blue blood staining fur and skin.

The babe sleeps in her arms, beautiful and perfect. The cord is cut, the afterbirth put in a large dish and set beside the bed.

“The babe has fed. Go now to the temple.” She says, and the midwife lifts the child from her arms, hushing small whines expertly, two assistants accompanying her out. The babe will go to the temple. If it survives the night to come it is a boon upon her house, if it dies in the cold then it was a weak child, and no Queen, no female of her race, would accept a weak child into her household. In this harsh world it is only the hardiest that survive.

She retrieves the dish containing the afterbirth and eyes its bloody contents slightly dubiously. She knows intellectually that it all came from her body, and to her body it must return, but it looks so very unappetizing. Still, she has seen mothers that had not eaten the afterbirth become sickly as they nursed their child.

She sighs, tearing off a piece with black-clawed fingers. Best get it over with, and there is something viscerally satisfying about the mess and the blood as she eats it. She finishes, and she doesn’t bother calling for anyone to help her clean up, still lying in the furs she gave birth in. She will sleep and then she will bathe.

Even a Mage-Queen will have her rest.


She has wanted to kill her consort before, most recently whilst in the rage of childbirth, but this. This is the most furious she has ever been with him. She is Rage and Wrath incarnate, even as she cannot stand from her bed. She is the howling wind off the glaciers, and her consort cowers before her.

She is covered in dried stains of birth-blood, naked among the bloodied furs, and she can see a spark of arousal in her consort’s eye beneath that healthy dose of fear.

Good. He should fear her, it is her right to be feared. And he should love her, lust for her - she is the one who picked him to be her consort, elevated his status above all other of the warrior caste. She selected him for his prowess in battle, for his quick wit, even though it leads her to vexation with him. She decided he would sire her children and rarely has she regretted this choice.

She is Mage-Queen, she is the one named as the very incarnation of Rage and Wrath placed upon the arctic tundra to lead her people.

She had trusted her consort with her child, her heir, her only ever magelet. Her body will never conceive another, though she may have more children.

He has lost her baby.

“Get my scrying tools,” she snarls. One of the midwife’s attendants hesitates and the Queen shrieks her fury at the girl-child, half-rising from her furs. The girl flinches (spine still backed with more ice-forged steel than most others, as all too many have fled her presence) and she is left with only the midwife, the female’s second assistant and her consort. She glares at the midwife and the girl until they take their leave, and then stares with righteous fury at her consort.

“What say you to defend yourself? Tell me why I should not slay you here and now and paint my skin with your blood.” She hisses, and he bows his head.

“I cannot defend myself. I posted guards at all four stairs to the temple. I was patrolling the base. Still somehow your child vanished. I would that you will take my head, as I am an unfit sire of your children.” He says, his manner repentant and genuinely grieved. She relents. Mercy is not her strong suit, but this is the only male she feels is fit to sire any of her children. Lesser folk might say she loves him, but she would not go quite that far.

The little attendant returns, setting her tools of scrying before the Queen and retreating as quickly as is polite.

She splashes water into the bowl, sparking magic into the runes carved along the rim and in the bottom, and carefully makes a shallow slice in each palm before bending over the bowl and carefully pricking each eyelid just enough for a tiny trickle of blood to drop into the surface of the fluid. Ice crackles from her fingertips seconds later as she freezes the combines blood and water into a perfectly smooth, still glass.

She sees nothing.

She screams her fury, and the bowl is flung across the room. Her consort, bless and curse the male, catches the carved-stone bowl before it strikes the wall and shatters with the force of her throw.

She should have at least seen bones that she could bury, if a wild animal had gotten past her consort’s warriors.

This means one thing.

Her child, her perfect little magelet, has been stolen.

Those filthy Æsir have stolen the only heir to her bloodline. Asgard is the one place she cannot scry, even though Jötnar are infinitely better at scrying than the Æsir.

They have lost the war, and with it they have lost the ability to travel between realms. Fury consumes her and she screams rage and despair to the heavens.

Odin Oath-Breaker has stolen her child.

She is Laufey Mage-Queen, she who rules the Jötnar of Jötunheimr with her consort Fárbauti Queen-Speaker.

She will have her vengeance.

If it is the last thing she does.

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