Speakeasy - January, 1926 [tag: Bragi]
Frigg didn't necessarily hate it when Odin left for a indeterminate amount of time, she just didn't like being left alone. She wasn't even alone, persay, she would just retreat to Fensalir whenever he went away and only returned to Valaskjalf when he returned to Asgard. There was something so vast, cold and empty about Valaskjalf when Odin wasn't there. It had been quite different when their sons had been young and wandering the hall at all hours getting into all sorts of trouble. But those days were gone. Baldr and Hod were dead. Hermod was grown. Valaskjalf was quiet. Empty. Lonely. Fensalir was always a bustle of activity with all the maidens that resided there, and while it was not a replacement for her husband it always managed to help her forget, for awhile, that she was lonely.
Even Vili and Ve couldn't put the damper on her emptiness, no matter their attempts while they warmed her bed in Fensalir (never in Valaskjalf, her marital bed was her marital bed). But it didn't matter who graced her bed or when, no one had ever held a candle to her husband. So when he was gone, she missed him. It was as simple as that.
Sometimes she would pass the time by taking trips into Midgard, watching the world as it changed, helping the rare soul that still gave her honor and just exploring. It just would have been nice to do it with Odin at her side. Frigg hadn't even realized she'd been locked away in Fensalir for two straight weeks until Bragi sought her out to take her on an adventure in America. Dear, sweet Bragi. He was always watching out for her.
Truthfully, though, she had avoided the United States ever since they passed their Eighteenth Amendment and enacted Prohibition. It was just ludicrous, banning alcohol. It didn't succeed in ending anything, it would just go underground and cause more problems than the booze originally caused when it was legal. Besides, Frigg rather liked drinking and since it was going to be a hassle in America, she just avoided it and went to other countries for some reprieve from loneliness.
Even if that reprieve involved drowning her sorrows in a bottle, a terrible habit that had started when her sons died, and finding some handsome gentleman to take her mind away from the emptiness.
She had half a mind to cancel on Bragi until she got a good look at herself in a mirror at Fensalir after her handmaidens helped fuss over her appearance. Not that there was much to fuss over. But the second she saw her reflection, she changed her mind. There was something about the relatively shapeless burgundy beaded dress, the jewelry, the finger-waves in her hair accented with decorative hairpins to keep it pulled up (and that had required at least six hands to get set correctly, thank heavens for her handmaidens), the heels, the fancy undergarments and the whole ensemble topped with a elegant chinchilla coat that made her feel a bit better about whatever adventure Bragi had in store.
Whatever it was, it required her to dress nice, which she would have done anyway, but in the new fashion instead of the dusty old fashions of the previous decade. “So,” she asked as they walked along a street lit by streetlamps in Chicago while her heels clicked on the pavement. “Where are we going?”