Chapter 8: The Proposal Protocol – When Love Contracts Come with Fine Print and Fireworks
If you've never woken up to the sound of a thousand elves arguing over bouquet configurations, count yourself blessed by the Norns. I hadn't even had my morning tea before someone tried to measure me for what they called a "post‑Ragnarok engagement ensemble."
Apparently, one shared runway strut and an overextended hand clasp now constituted a binding promise in seven of the nine realms. Thor had already sent me a congratulatory basket of mead cupcakes. Loki had sent something that hissed when opened.
Odin, of course, was impossibly calm about the entire thing. "I merely asked if I could court you properly," he'd said over breakfast, as though we were discussing the weather and not a potential cosmic re‑entanglement with centuries of complicated history and one son's ongoing therapy bills.
"Properly," I repeated, sipping tea that tasted suspiciously of mischief. "On Asgard, that word has so many loopholes it should come with a map."
He smiled that maddening, patient smile. "Then let's draw one together."
You know what's more dangerous than a god with a hammer? A god with a plan.
The "Proposal Protocol" (as Loki gleefully branded it) was an ancient Asgardian ceremony meant to balance romance with bureaucracy. Because what says "love" like parchment, officials, and a blood‑binding clause? The event required witnesses from every realm, a declaration of intent, and—because Loki had recently discovered minimalism—a fireworks display "tastefully restrained to under two hours."
By midday, Asgard was once again a frenzy of preparations. The Valkyries practiced parade formations. Dwarves debated whether gold or diamond runes looked more "commitment adjacent." Thor appointed himself Master of Toasts and was already rehearsing speeches loudly enough to be heard in Vanaheim.
Meanwhile, I hid in my study, weighing the pros and cons of accepting a courtship from the All‑Father.
Pros:
Still charming.
Still devastatingly handsome.
Occasionally listens.
Cons:
Also occasionally thinks he's listening while planning military treaties in his head.
Has been known to accidentally declare small wars while flirting.
Tends to equate "shared affection" with "joint strategic alliance."
I was halfway through drafting an imaginary treaty titled "Terms and Conditions of Rekindled Affection" when Loki materialized—literally—on my desk, lounging among the scrolls like a smug serpent in silk.
"So," he purred, "mother dearest, are we saying yes, no, or a delightfully confusing maybe?"
"Loki," I sighed. "Please refrain from using the word 'mother' when interrogating me about my romantic life. It upsets the cosmic order."
He smiled without remorse. "The cosmic order could use a little upsetting. Besides, it's good for the drama. Thor already commissioned matching armor sets—yours say 'Love' and his say 'Backup Lightning'."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Tell him to stop accessorizing my emotional life."
"Too late," Loki said, producing a glitter‑sealed envelope. "Also, father asked me to deliver this with all the sincerity an immortal trickster can muster."
The envelope read: "For Frigga—Confidential Courtship Draft." Inside was an absurdly ornate document complete with embossed borders, Odin's signature flourish, and a section titled Mutual Terms of Emotional Investment.
Clause 1: Each participant agrees to communicate their needs without summoning lightning, ravens, or unapproved illusions.
Clause 2: Both parties retain independent sovereignty during arguments, kitchen disputes, and enchanted holidays.
Clause 3: All affection gestures to be mutually consented and preferably well‑lit.
I couldn't help laughing. "He drafted a literal love contract."
"Romantic, isn't it?" Loki said. "Bureaucracy of the heart."
"I suppose it's more responsible than his usual approach involving wars and roses."
"True," Loki mused, inspecting his nails. "Although I did add a clause—'All familial chaos to be redirected into festive occasions.' You're welcome."
Before I could reply, the castle vibrated with thunder. That was never a good sign.
Thor's Rehearsal of Toasts had escalated into what witnesses later described as a friendly explosion. Half the banquet hall was covered in frosting. The other half was debating whether thunder could be used as an emotional metaphor.
When Odin found me amid the mess, I was crouched beside a toppled cake shaped like Yggdrasil, trying to convince two dwarves that fondant trees didn't require root systems. His voice, deep and amused, carried over the chaos.
"So this is what peace looks like under your stewardship."
"Controlled anarchy," I corrected. "And it's good for team morale."
He offered me a hand. "Then perhaps I should stop hesitating before the real chaos begins."
I looked up at him, frosting on my sleeve and suspicion in my heart. "What do you mean by 'real chaos'?"
"Tonight," he said simply. "The Proposal Protocol. If I'm fated to make a spectacle, I'd at least like you beside me when I do."
"Beside you, not behind you," I said, standing.
"Always beside," he promised.
And because every wise being occasionally allows foolishness its turn, I nodded.
Twilight.
The Rainbow Bridge shimmered again, this time lined with crystal torches that floated above the surface like slow‑burning stars. Guests from all nine realms filled the air with chatter, clinking goblets, and the occasional flirtatious growl.
Thor stood at the podium, hair gleaming, eyes suspiciously damp. "Dear assembled beings, we are gathered not for war, not for trade, but for something infinitely more terrifying—romance!" The crowd cheered. Loki conjured applause sound effects for extra drama.
Odin took his place at the center. His armor tonight was understated—for him—which meant only some of it glowed. He gestured, and silence rippled outward.
"My people," he began, "once I believed love was a distraction from duty. Yet this woman"—he turned to me—"taught me that love is the fiercest duty of all."
"Oh, he's definitely been rehearsing," Loki whispered from somewhere too close to the stage.
I tried not to roll my eyes. The All‑Father continued, voice steady and low. "We've rebuilt our realm from ruin. Now, I would rebuild something more fragile and infinitely more precious—trust. Frigga, will you join me in redefining what it means to rule together, to laugh together, to start again even when the stars are indifferent?"
The audience held its breath. Even Thor stopped drinking.
I stepped forward, every inch of me aware of the weight—and absurdity—of the moment. "Odin, you wove contracts into poetry. You turned bureaucracy into courtship. And yet, after all these centuries, you still forget that I'm the mischievous one."
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. I extended my hand. Between us shimmered the scroll he'd drafted, the runes glowing softly. "Clause Four," I said, smiling. "Addendum: Both parties agree that love, like magic, is most potent when improvised."
He traced the air, sealing the clause with a spark of golden light. The parchment dissolved into glitter, the crowd erupted, and the fireworks began—tastefully restrained to exactly two hours, as Loki had decreed.
As the sky turned into a kaleidoscope of light, Odin leaned close. "Does this mean yes?"
"It means," I whispered, "you have to keep earning yes. Every day."
He grinned. "A challenge, then. My favorite kind."
Thor bellowed a cheer that nearly cracked the bridge. Loki raised a glass of something suspiciously luminescent. "To love contracts and cosmic fine print!"
Later, when the guests had drifted away and the bridge glowed only with lingering embers, Odin and I walked in silence. The air was cool, scented with smoke and possibility.
"You realize," I said, "there's no guarantee we won't make the same mistakes again."
He nodded. "Perhaps. But this time, we'll make them together."
I couldn't help but smile. "You're getting better at this whole 'communication' thing."
"I've had an excellent teacher," he replied.
Somewhere in the distance, Loki's laughter echoed—warm, chaotic, and strangely approving.
I glanced up at the stars, each one a flicker of stories yet to be written. "Well," I said, slipping my hand into Odin's, "let's see what happens when gods attempt domestic bliss."
He squeezed my fingers. "Spoiler: probably more glitter."
"Then we'll call it tradition."
To Be Continued…
(Chapter 9: Divine Domesticity – Breakfast with Gods, Bureaucrats, and One Overly Helpful Trickster)