“You could have warned me she was right behind me,” he said to his youngest brother.
“What fun would that be?” Bo replied.
“So tell us, West, what have you been up to as of late? We’ve not heard a tale from Aegir in some time,” Vali said. Westley cringed at the nickname that once made him so proud.
“Aegir is getting old and has slowed his conquests,” Westley explained, trying to laugh it off.
“What a shame. From the moment we walked in I knew we’d have no chance with any females with all their attention on you,” Steffen muttered, only half joking.
“It’s the muscles,” Vali remarked with a smile. “We Elven are cursed with too much beauty and the Fae get all the brute strength.”
The doors opened and the trumpet blew again, halting their conversation. Svartalfheim was one of the only realms to adopt the mortal system of government and had begun electing their leaders.
Chancellor Gloi Ginnarrdottir arrived without her family, accompanied only by her husband. Westley was not sure why they’d left their two daughters at home—his sisters would be disappointed.
He bowed as they passed. Though it was not their custom anymore, the Dwarven knew that the other realms still held to their traditions. Chancellor Gloi greeted the monarchs of the realms, except for the Giants.
Their lands bordered each other, but Jotunheim and Svartalfheim had never seen eye to eye.
With each realm’s entrance, Westley grew more antsy. His family would be here soon and he wasn’t sure how to greet his parents. They had not left things on the best of terms, and after ignoring their letters and requests to bring Solveig to Idavoll, he was unsure of their reception.
He didn’t want the other realms noticing the cracks in Idavoll’s armour but had no idea how to face them, feeling as he did about his home.
Like his thoughts summoned them, the doors opened yet again, and in walked his parents. Noren jabbed him harder in the ribs than was required, like he couldn’t see his family right in front of them.
Asshole.
“Introducing Their Majesties King Erik Ragnvaldson and Queen Consort Alvida Vedottir of Idavoll, and Their Royal Highnesses, Princess North Erikdottir and Princess Easta.”
His parents found him immediately standing with the four Alfheim princes. Westley decided on the spot to pay them no mind, instead turning his attention to his sisters.
North and Easta were dressed in the green of Idavoll—North in a deep emerald gown with long bell sleeves and a skirt that puffed out around her, swishing as she walked. Easta wore a dark forest-green silk gown that hung off her shapely curves. The sisters’ olive skin gleamed in the white marble room, the contrast of the rich colours making them stand out against the cool hues of the other realms.
Westley was so glad to see them.
He bowed briefly to his parents without meeting their eyes, his heart flipping in his chest. Indecision was new to him and he wasn’t sure how best to handle it. Holding his mother’s hand as she descended the last step left his skin feeling clammy before he turned to embrace his sisters.
“Little brother,” North said affectionately, reaching her arms around his waist as he hugged her head to his chest. She tried to pull away when he enveloped her, but his arms were like a cage, locking her there. “Ah, you’re going to wreck my hair!” she exclaimed.
He held on for one more second before releasing her, her hands flying up to adjust the crown he’d knocked askew. “Menace,” she whispered with a smile.
“Don’t you dare,” Easta admonished with her finger pointing at his chest before he pulled her into a tight hug as well. She held her head back from him though, making him chuckle.
“Westley.” His father’s voice came from behind.
Easta gave him a look, rolling her eyes where their father couldn’t see. It was an effort to keep from responding with a smirk. He turned to greet his parents.
“Mother, Father,” he said with a bow but made no move to embrace them. His mother frowned, looking hurt, but said nothing.
“We have not heard from you. Have you been getting our letters?” His father was looking for any excuse to blame Asgard for tampering with their correspondence.
“Yes, Father, I’ve received your letters.”
“I see,” he replied, furrowing his brow. He took in Westley’s outfit and stiffened.
Westley wore no green, no colours of his home save for the emerald ring that marked him as an heir of Idavoll. His black jacket was trimmed in inky threads, highlighting the gold circlet crown on his head.
The onyx shirt he wore beneath opened just enough to show the tattoo on his chest, an immodest choice by Idavoll standards. Black pants tapered into his dress boots.
