insensitive
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The anticipation of the moment was frightening, now that it was finally upon her.
They were all positioned in waiting within the grand palace antechamber, her father on the spacious throne, her mother at his left shoulder, while herself and Thor stood at his right, the pride of the highest realm. They were a picture of patience, but outward was where it stopped—at least for her.
Dagny, despite all the curiosities that drove her in the pursuit of knowledge that, betimes, saw her in great deals of trouble—though she’d since grown infinitely closer with reprimands, when they were due—was just short of terrified. All her life, the Jotuns, the frost giants, were spoken of in tales or in teachings, the descriptions preceded them ones of malice and hatred and inhumanity. They had been at an uneasy truce with all of Jotunheim so long, and before that at war even longer.
Now she was to wed one of them.
Not just any one, she knew. It was the crown prince himself, and any second, he was due to make good on his and his father’s promises to Odin.
Better that he should decide to jilt us, thought Dagny, although her bitterness and outright anger toward her family—the realm in its entirety, even, and the events of past that had brought them here—had fallen some time ago to a simmer. Still there, but underneath the skin, distracting her only sometimes with thoughts of how she might get out of it all. It was unfair, anyway, to allow it such a rise within her that she might continue blaming those who did not deserve it; Thor, for one, except she could still be bitter that he had the easier burden to bear. For now.
No, it would not be better, she reminded herself, if the prince or he and Laufey decided not to hold up his end of the Allfather’s bargain. It would more than likely mean war, and that was the only prospect that scared her more than the thought of what would surely come of this agreement if, by the end, His Highness found her agreeable and wished to wed her.
Dagny pushed the thought away and straightened herself even further. Sensing her unease, she could feel Thor’s gaze from her left, but ignored it. Dressed in the lavish garments of the finest artisans, which hung in palest cloth-of-gold from her slender body easily and lacking naught a measure of the necessary grace, the soft V of her neckline pronounced elegantly by that of the garment, she looked as regal as she supposed she could, even if she felt exposed. Her hair, the color of an aged honey deepened with hues of carnelian-red, fell over her shoulders in natural curls where it was not drawn from her heart-shaped face by the golden band around her fair forehead. It provided some of the warmth that was lost to her extremities and chest as the seconds dragged on, and her uncertainty grew heavier.
They were all positioned in waiting within the grand palace antechamber, her father on the spacious throne, her mother at his left shoulder, while herself and Thor stood at his right, the pride of the highest realm. They were a picture of patience, but outward was where it stopped—at least for her.
Dagny, despite all the curiosities that drove her in the pursuit of knowledge that, betimes, saw her in great deals of trouble—though she’d since grown infinitely closer with reprimands, when they were due—was just short of terrified. All her life, the Jotuns, the frost giants, were spoken of in tales or in teachings, the descriptions preceded them ones of malice and hatred and inhumanity. They had been at an uneasy truce with all of Jotunheim so long, and before that at war even longer.
Now she was to wed one of them.
Not just any one, she knew. It was the crown prince himself, and any second, he was due to make good on his and his father’s promises to Odin.
Better that he should decide to jilt us, thought Dagny, although her bitterness and outright anger toward her family—the realm in its entirety, even, and the events of past that had brought them here—had fallen some time ago to a simmer. Still there, but underneath the skin, distracting her only sometimes with thoughts of how she might get out of it all. It was unfair, anyway, to allow it such a rise within her that she might continue blaming those who did not deserve it; Thor, for one, except she could still be bitter that he had the easier burden to bear. For now.
No, it would not be better, she reminded herself, if the prince or he and Laufey decided not to hold up his end of the Allfather’s bargain. It would more than likely mean war, and that was the only prospect that scared her more than the thought of what would surely come of this agreement if, by the end, His Highness found her agreeable and wished to wed her.
Dagny pushed the thought away and straightened herself even further. Sensing her unease, she could feel Thor’s gaze from her left, but ignored it. Dressed in the lavish garments of the finest artisans, which hung in palest cloth-of-gold from her slender body easily and lacking naught a measure of the necessary grace, the soft V of her neckline pronounced elegantly by that of the garment, she looked as regal as she supposed she could, even if she felt exposed. Her hair, the color of an aged honey deepened with hues of carnelian-red, fell over her shoulders in natural curls where it was not drawn from her heart-shaped face by the golden band around her fair forehead. It provided some of the warmth that was lost to her extremities and chest as the seconds dragged on, and her uncertainty grew heavier.