‘Your highness, don’t be afraid to rest your bodyweight on me,’ Caunas said. He had been tasked with Loki’s follow up care after Loki had been discharged. Supposedly, he was one of the most promising healers under Eir’s tutelage, but he didn’t look like much. Caunas was a short and skinny man, who dressed in clothes too wide for him, which only made him seem slighter. Loki hesitated to lean too heavily on him.

Yet as they moved away from Loki’s bed and toward the round table on the other end of the room, each step was more difficult than the previous. Loki ended up digging his hands into the heavy fabric of Caunas’s overcoat.

‘Why does everything have to feel so stiff?’ Loki mumbled.

The braces, which had been replaced with more compact, semi-rigid ones the previous night contributed, but the stiffness was mostly in his legs. The resulting feeling was vile. It was as everything under his skin wasn’t entirely his own — dead wood trapped within living flesh. The sole exception was the ache that rolled through his lower thigh every time Loki moved his right leg. Originating somewhere deep within, as if from the bone itself, that ache was vivid and alive.

Having received no response from Caunas, Loki gritted his teeth and ventured a few steps further until Caunas backed himself into the table. Loki’s textbooks had been stacked on there; they went flying.

‘Pardon me, your highness,’ Caunas said. He peered sharply at Loki, perhaps remembering anew his purpose in Loki’s bedchamber, then pried the sleeves of his overcoat out of Loki’s hands. He hurriedly stacked the books back into place. ‘How does it feel today?’

Much the same. Loki felt himself sway a little; he wasn’t entirely sure of his footing. ‘Better than yesterday. Definitely.’

‘Good. Now back to the bed, your highness.’ Caunas frowned. ‘If you are feeling up to it, of course, your highness.’

Loki wasn’t sure he had ever heard ‘your highness’ be used by any single person so liberally before; it verged on a verbal tic. He wasn’t sure either if he was feeling up to the shuffling journey back to his bed. But he wasn’t about to admit that. Slowly, and with Caunas now trailing behind him rather than pulling him along, Loki worked his way back. He had to thank the Norns that Caunas was behind him and couldn’t see how badly he grit his teeth.

‘Good, good, your highness,’ Caunas said quickly while Loki, verging on woozy now, awkwardly clambered back onto his bed. ‘Uh, what else was there? The…’

‘It’s fine. It’s all getting better, just takes time, doesn’t it?’ Loki cut in. He furrowed his brows as he wrestled with what he ought to say next. ‘Speaking of time. You were explaining before, it takes three weeks for the cultures to mature. But what happens if you leave them for an extra week?’

As Loki expected, Caunas’ face lit up. The healer was probably brilliant in his own manner, but he wasn’t destined for a career in patient care. He was neither particularly good at it nor at all interested. He was dedicated to understanding the evolution of viruses. Or some particular strand of viruses anyway. Loki didn’t understand so much as a quarter of what Caunas said to him, but Loki liked that Caunas was passionate about his laboratory work. If Loki kept asking Caunas questions, Caunas remained too distracted to ask Loki any. He had forgotten even to take a measure of Loki’s temperature this morning.

In the end, Loki overplayed his hand. Caunas blabbered on far too long before he finally decided to dash back to his laboratory — Loki’s head had begun to throb at all the long words that held no meaning for him. Loki massaged the sides of his head, then buried himself under his three layers of blankets once more. Unfortunately, Loki didn’t get to enjoy the warmth and serenity of his bed for long. Asta strode in with a tray of food.

She set the tray down on the bed next to Loki. There was more than enough space. His bed was sized to accommodate the height of a grown man and wide enough that Loki could sleep across it without his feet dangling off his mattress.

‘Or would you rather sit at the table?’ Asta asked. ‘You don’t want to spill the soup all over.’

‘You’ve already set it down here,’ Loki replied. The tray accommodated a folded napkin, a side-plate with three slices of rye bread and a small bowl of raspberries and blackcurrant, but most of the tray was taken up by a broad, lidded bowl. He lifted the lid off. The soup was still steaming hot. It was a thick meaty broth with carrots, peas, potatoes and beans bobbing within. Loki’s stomach grumbled in protest as the smell reached his nostrils. He went for the bread instead.

‘Eat the soup, don’t fill up on bread,’ Asta said.

‘Why bring it if I’m not supposed to eat it?’

Even the bread proved a trial. By the time he had worked through one slice, something acidic was building up in Loki’s throat. Rather than biting into the second slice, he started tearing off chunks of the soft, still warm bread from the middle and left the crust on the plate.

‘Loki, what are you doing?’ Asta let out an irritated huff. ‘Pick up the spoon and eat the soup. It’ll be cool enough by now.’

Loki sighed and tugged at the napkin; the kitchen staff tucked the cutlery into the cloth. He had to shift the bowl into his lap too; Asta was right — it was easier to eat soup while seated at a dining table. Although he made sure to only spoon up broth, his stomach began churning before the spoon even reached his mouth; the smell was too pungent for Loki’s unremitting nausea.

‘I think I’m just not hungry,’ he said. ‘Thank you —’

Asta’s lips pursed. ‘If you want to get better any time soon, you need to eat. And I’m not going to sit here coaxing you into swallowing that soup spoonful by spoonful. I’m the queen’s under-secretary, I have important matters to settle today.’

‘Good. ‘Cause I don’t intend to eat any of this.’

‘I think you’d best watch your tone. Illness is no excuse for ill manners.’

‘Fine. Asta, would you be so kind please as to remove this food from my presence?’ Loki retorted as he moved the soup bowl off his lap and placed it back onto the tray.

But Asta just lifted up the entire tray and set it down on Loki’s legs, which sent needles whirring through the lower half of his body. Ignoring his gasp, she replied, ‘Shall I have your father come over here and make sure you eat? He’ll certainly have no patience for your attitude.’

‘He’ll come and then he’ll order you dismissed. Do you really think he’ll consider it acceptable to have his meeting with the Crown Prince of Alfheim interrupted just because it’s lunchtime and his child happens to not be hungry?’ Loki said. He lifted the tray up an inch; just enough for it not to press down on his legs. ‘A king has to prioritise his day and I’m far from the top of that list.’

Asta sucked in a long breath and for a moment, she seemed to want to say something, only to decide against it. She placed the lid back over the soup bowl, then took the tray out of Loki’s hands and moved it over to the table. Only then did she turn her attention back to Loki.

‘So be it, Loki. I will leave the food here; the soup’ll be hot a while yet,’ she said. She took care to sound calm. ‘You barely ate half your breakfast, so if you’re not hungry yet, you’ll be soon enough. I’ll still be just on the other side of the door, working from your desk. Call me if you need any assistance.’

Loki recognised a peace offering when he was granted one, so he nodded. ‘Thank you, Asta. I’ll let you know if I have any trouble.’

Smiling a little, Loki slid his fingers along the rim of his bedchamber table. He had a long way to go, but he felt more confident on his feet today.

Or perhaps, he was merely becoming accustomed to the odd sensation of his lower limbs not being quite his own. Nor was his stomach cooperating either. He had managed the bread and a couple of pieces of the cold meats he’d been served at breakfast. Lunch had just dissolved into another argument with Asta; Loki had been thoroughly tempted to just fling the entire tray into her face. She, in turn, had threatened to drag him back to the Medical Wing.

And now dinner sat waiting for Loki. He pulled the lids off the two covered plates. Noodles coated in fried eggs and spices, a fillet of white fish on the side. After the vile stuffed capsicums he’d been served at lunch — a dish he had despised as far back as his memory stretched, this was a relief. He wondered if it was a stroke of luck or if Asta had asked the kitchen staff to make him this in an effort to apologise for before. Or maybe, it was a test on Asta’s part. Loki could be picky about food — he wasn’t about to deny that, but he never turned down fish or fried noodles.

He almost wished Asta had stayed a little longer after she had brought in the tray. Something else had her in a frenzy this afternoon. She had set the tray down and hurried out with barely a glance in Loki’s direction, so he hadn’t had the chance to get a good sense of her mood.

He picked up a fork and dug it into the fish until he carved out several chunks, which he then transferred atop the noodles. The noodle bowl in hand, he lumbered over to the windowsill. All windowsills in his and Thor’s suites were wide, easily wide enough for a child to sit on one and read. Or to merely peer out the window and watch proceedings in the courtyard below.

‘Just eat half of this,’ Loki muttered. ‘Otherwise, it’ll be another lecture from Asta. Or worse.’

The noodles were coated in the savoury and slightly spicy sauce he had always loved, but now he nearly gagged. He forced himself to chew and swallow what was already on his fork. The steam rising from the bowl warmed his face. Cold food seemed to be easier to get down, he just needed to wait until the noodles and the fish cooled. He stuck the fork into the noodles and placed the bowl down on the floor below the windowsill.

Loki rested the side of his head against the window-frame and peered down to ground level. The window overlooked a broad courtyard. Loki sometimes missed his old nursery room because of this; the windows there had overlooked his mother’s garden. Here, he got to look down on the busiest and ugliest courtyard in the entire palace complex. There were three levels of various living quarters below Loki’s suite; chancellery offices were located on the left-hand side of the courtyard; headquarters of the palace guard were to the right; and the archway at the far end led through to the stables. People were constantly coming and going. And amid all that foot-traffic, this courtyard also hosted combat-training sessions.

He had been served his dinner far earlier than he would have been ordinarily; he supposed it made sense — he had barely touched his lunch, so he should have been hungry by now. But he’d slept through half the afternoon; he hadn’t expended enough energy to justify being hungry. He just wanted to be down in the courtyard with Thor and the rest of the students in their class.

It wasn’t that Loki missed combat training. If pushed to be honest, Loki would have to admit he hated just about everything about it. But he needed the practice. He wasn’t jealous at how good Thor was at it either (despite what Sif claimed). He outpaced Thor in many other things; he wouldn’t have minded at all to be second-best at something for once. Except he wasn’t second best. He was easily the worst in his class.

And everyone on Asgard knew it. There were always people hurrying across the courtyard, so there was always an audience when Loki ended up disarmed or clobbered into the ground. It was humiliating.

Leifur, their combat-master, didn’t know what to do with a coward like Loki. For months now he had pulled Loki out of sparring every single training session and Loki would have one-on-one lessons with Leifur instead. That was humiliating in its own right; Loki apparently wasn’t competent enough to even try sparring with the other students. It was nerve-racking too — certainly the most stressful part of Loki’s day.

He wasn’t sure how tall Leifur was, but he had to be something like seven feet. Looking at him now, talking to the students who were all crowded in a tight circle around him, the man looked easily twice their height. And his shoulders were broader than Loki’s father’s. Leifur always started the lessons with the simplest of moves, but they never stayed simple and every mistake earned you a whack across the top of your helmet or across the side of your thigh. It didn’t hurt. Not unless he was angry.

But the worst was actually when you hadn’t made any mistakes for a while. He would start to do one move, but then trick you and do something completely different. It made sense, sure, you couldn’t expect to always know what your opponent’s next move would be. But Leifur was a huge man, scarred from what had to be hundreds of battles and during one-on-one lessons, a helmet was the only protection he allowed his students.

The previous week, Loki had outright panicked. He had been practising his feint attacks with Leifur making a series of parries in response, which Loki had to manoeuvre around. But then, Leifur stepped into the middle of Loki’s attack and made for one of his own. Loki should have scrambled back as quickly as he could, but he got caught in mid-step and flailed. The tip of his blade ended up skewering Leifur’s knee and the hilt of Leifur’s own sword rammed into Loki’s shoulder. Although Loki’s blade was blunt, he had hit hard enough to draw blood. Leifur’s sword, in turn, had Loki’s shoulder aching for two days afterwards.

Furious, Leifur had said — shouted, really — exactly what he thought of Loki’s skills as he tried to staunch the blood dripping from his knee.

Loki dropped his sword then and scrambled away before Leifur could properly clobber him. And at precisely that moment salvation seemed to arrive. His father strode out of the Chancellery, surrounded by the usual crowd of advisers and secretaries. Loki ran to his father and just about threw himself into his father’s arms.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ his father demanded. His tone right there should have forewarned Loki, but he had already started blubbering about how Leifur had hit him and yelled at him. Frowning, Loki’s father pried him off. ‘Rather sounds like the mistake was yours. Go back to your lessons and apologise to your combat-master and to the rest of your class for disrupting the lesson.’

In an effort to stem the tears he could feel trailing down his cheeks, Loki pressed the hems of his sleeves against his face. ‘But —’

‘Now’s not the time. We’ll discuss it later.’

‘Father —’

‘No.’ His father’s lips tightened then. ‘You’re a prince of Asgard, Loki. So enough of this snivelling. Wipe your face and get back to your class.’

Loki wrapped his hands around himself as he winced. They never did discuss it later, which was fine with Loki. Just thinking back to that day now left his cheeks aflame.

Down in the courtyard, the students had finished their bladework drills and had turned to sparring. With Loki confined to his suite, Leifur didn’t pull anyone out for individual lessons and turned his from one pair of sparring partners to the next, occasionally shouting advice.

Loki didn’t understand why the adults didn’t see it — every day he wasn’t practising, he was falling further behind the rest of the class. Sure, his footwork would be useless right now, but he could focus on the bladework. Yet he had been denied even that when he proposed it.

He just needed to persuade everyone that he was better. He reached for the bowl of noodles; there wasn’t any steam rising off them now. The fish too looked barely lukewarm. Loki managed four mouthfuls before his stomach began protesting again. Two more and bile began to build in his throat. He was certain he would vomit if he risked anything more. Yet more than half of the bowl remained. Plus there was the rest of the fish he’d left sitting on the table. Asta would have much to say if he left food uneaten again. And he had a feeling her earlier threat wasn’t an idle one; she would drag Loki back to the Medical Wing if he exasperated her enough.

‘Well, it’s not like she stays around to watch me eat,’ Loki said under his breath. He flicked his hand and the noodles vanished.