Bragi

On the Winter Solstice, the music was the brightest, clearest, and loudest—piano notes floated through the air in melodic cries, punctuated by gentle strumming and a range of vocals, light and soft as the breeze that calmed Bragi’s mind, which as of late had been buzzing with battle plans and various routes for the kingdom to pursue. Normally, Bragi felt most at peace during the Solstice festivals, and even now allowed a small, contented sigh to slip at a particularly dazzling lyric despite the rather dispirited circumstances.

But now he could not be the Master of the Court Music. Now he had to be the Royal Inquisitor.

When his sister, Queen Frigga, first summoned Bragi to inform him of King Odin’s intent to declare war, Bragi stood frozen in place, uncertain if he should bow respectfully and accept the decision with the careful grace of a skilled officer, or slouch in defeat, knowing this meant months and months of mere planning when they should be out there actively seeking the princes.

A sudden shadow interrupted his brooding thoughts.

“Are you not enjoying the festivities?” a high, pretty voice sang.

Illuminated by the white snowflakes falling on her wings, a brightly-colored Fae sat patiently in front of Bragi, looking at him expectantly. When he took his time answering, smugly relishing in her increasing perplexity, the Fae’s gaze wandered to the sparse tables with hardly any food—a strange sight compared to the typical feasts—and the beautifully-decorated open field that was being used as a space for dragon dances. The Queen’s Royal Guard lined the perimeter.

“Sif.” Bragi finally nodded, bringing her attention back to him as he lazily lounged. “I’ve noticed you noticing the disheartening lack of jollification in our realm today. Would be utterly reckless if something hazardous happened in such an empty area. Aren’t you supposed to be over there with them?” Bragi flicked his tail towards the guards.

Sif’s face paled, working over his accusation, or his implication, or was it an insult?

As Sif tried to come up with a suitable comeback, Bragi’s mind meandered once more. It was an infrequent occurrence for Bragi to lose himself to daydreams and memories. Certainly, he could easily lose himself to music and poetry, to the achingly raw words of an emotionally complex epic or the striking intricacy of a vulnerable and confident song. But those stories were often reflections of life, artistic interpretations, dramatizations (even if he wasn’t a huge fan of theatre). To become sentimental about real life, however—that was dangerous. Nonetheless, Bragi couldn’t help thinking about his boys—not simply Asgard’s princes, but his nephews who loved mischief and adventure.

He preferred spending time with Loki, he’ll admit. He adored Thor, of course, but Loki was similar to him in many ways, and Bragi had no doubt that Loki would soon master that silver tongue of his. Witty, cunning, vain—the prince was everything Bragi had been and more. There were days where the two of them could spend hours exchanging riddles and coming up with new phrases to confuse those around them. Without realizing it, Bragi smiled fondly at the memories he had of the princes. He supposed some dragons enjoyed nostalgia, preferring to live in a world of familiarity and comfort than confront uncertainty. He understood why in a way he hadn’t before.

“I’ve a riddle for you,” Bragi drawled to distract his mind from darker days.

Sif jolted at the sound of his luring voice, still thinking over his earlier words. “I’ve not the time,” she mocked.

“Surely you do. As one of Asgard’s warriors and strategist-in-training, you’ve been so focused on the impending violence. Do you not yearn for a moment of revelry?”

The two dragons inwardly flinched at the title Bragi had given her, for they both knew there was only one dragon in the realm who would become a master strategist, and while Sif resented the particular green-eyed menace, Bragi’s heart clenched at the idea that he wouldn’t see him again.

Bragi leaned in close to the unmoving Fae, the music around him fading as he whispered, “‘Dare trespass my threshold? Don’t dream you shall flee; The strongest, the swiftest, cannot evade me…’”

Before he could finish, Sif straightened, hoisting her sword closer to her body. “You’ll do well to remember you’re the Royal Inquisitor now, not the Eloquent Blade. We’ve no time to waste with the arts—there are more pressing issues to attend to.” With that, she swiftly turned and flew back to formation, leaving Bragi alone with a sea of thoughts, barely drowned out by the music he so desperately craved.