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He can hear the whispers.
He cannot remember a time when he could not hear the whispers, around him. There is no silence for him.
Sometimes he cannot make out what they are saying, and he conjures words in his mind. Other times, the speech is all too clear, and he longs desperately for the unintelligible susurrus, which is terrible, but hurts less. Always, always, even when he is alone, he knows there are eyes upon him.
How could there not be? He is a prince of Asgard.
He does not know if he can be what they expect of him. Even if there were not — Thor — he fears he would fail to live up to the expectations of his people. As it is, how could he not falter in comparison to his mighty brother, so obvious an exemplar of Asgardian values?
He wishes to be a skald, fears he suffices only as a jester. What worth his skills in seithr to a society whose highest value is combat? It is long since a man’s magic drew the derogatory epithet argr, but he hears it hissed in dark corners.
Why can they not value him for what he is? Truly, he does not wish to compete with his brother for the throne; he wishes, childishly, that his father could rule forever. Underneath that wish, though, is the dread of Thor’s ascent to the throne.
He is beginning to be called Silver-tongue, for his wit and skill at deception, but he does not ever lie to himself. His brother is mighty, but he is rash, and hasty, and disinclined to listen to counsel, even from his brother. These are not qualities sought in a king.
Yet what can he do? Any word he speaks is considered by most to be envy of his brother. And his father is so tired. Sometimes it shocks him, how very tired his father is. He dares not add to Odin’s burden.
All he wants, truly, is for life to be easy. Simple. Pleasant. To be honoured for his own skills, not merely as Thor’s brother, Odin’s son. Something for himself.
Maybe then the whispers would stop. Maybe then he could stop comparing himself, ceaselessly, to all he knows, and falling short.
