980 AD: Asgard, Valaskjálf Courtyard
"Are you done yet?"
"No."
A heartbeat. "Alright, how about now?"
The ásynja sitting next to him looks up from the book balanced open between them, struggling to look stern around a dawning smile. "Somehow, I keep losing my place, and having to restart."
Loki groans theatrically, nearly toppling the book as he goes sprawling backwards against the yellow cobblestone steps. His reach is unfamiliar, the result of a recent growth spurt, and as his feet kick out, he very nearly trips Fandral. "It's not my fault you're the slowest reader in all nine realms," the young prince teases, grinning, as he props himself back up on his elbows.
"I'm savouring it," she whispers in reply, with sly, nearly-guilty glance back at him, "you read like Volstagg eats."
A stubborn winter has finally given way to spring, and the courtyard is warm and sunny, the last few drifts of snow still clinging to the most heavily shadowed places along the palace walls or beneath the balcony where he would sometimes catch his father watching.
The courtyard was empty today, devoid of the usual bustle of the Einherjar as they await the training master for the day's lesson. Naturally, all Sif wanted to do while waiting to train was train more, and the other girl has promised that she would join her as soon as she finishes the last few pages of this chapter.
Which, if Loki has his way, will be never.
Sif has had to content herself sparring with Fandral, and the two of them circle each other in the training ring bounded by the stairs. He sidesteps a crushing blow from Sif's blunted short sword, takes the opportunity of her forward momentum to try slashing at her with his own training saber. She recovered more quickly than Fandral had expected, and the strike glances off her shield. She swings, and their dulled blades lock with a ringing clang, Fandral on the defensive with Sif's blade caught against the guard of his own sword, pushed back to the first step. It's a precarious position, but Fandral's been stealing glances at the prince and his companion throughout the match, and his eyes flicker back towards them now. He grins, unable to resist the opportunity for a quip. "Maybe get a little closer, Loki," he says over his shoulder with a waggle of his eyebrows, "you're not quite in Sigyn's lap."
"If you can devise a better way to share a book, I'd love to hear it," he replies flatly.
Fandral has something to say to that— something salacious, judging by the gleam in his eye— but that's when Sif plants her foot against his chest and sends him crashing into the steps. From his seat higher up the stairs, Thor gives an enthusiastic cheer at her victory.
Fandral lands with a thud and a wheeze, winded, and sits up with a slow groan, a genuine rendition of the one Loki had feigned a moment before. Sigyn's brows knit together in concern as she scurries over to help him to his feet, but he waves her away, interrupting her soft inquiries.
"Nothing hurt but my pride, Sige, but sweet of you to ask," he assures her as he stands, loosening out the abused muscles in his back. "Your turn!" he steals a glance back at Sif, pacing the edge of the ring, and offers a wincing smile. "Best of Luck."
Sif stops at the foot of the steps, running a hand through her dark hair to smooth down the few wisps that had come free of her ponytail during the match, and watches her friend expectantly. "Come on," Sif's tone leaves little room for argument as she takes a step back into the center of the ring. "Your mother is due to return any time now. Do you want to have to tell her you spent all your time over that book? Or that you actually did some training?"
She opens her mouth to reply, but reconsiders. That worried look on Sigyn's face deepens, her free hand drifting to worry the braid over her shoulder, a familiar sign of unease. The conflict in Vanaheim had worn on longer than anyone had anticipated; their father had left that morning to join the fray, himself— a sign of dire circumstances, but also of an imminent conclusion.
In the meantime, he knows how to get her smiling again. A mischievous grin lights his face as Loki leans in closer. "Yes, stop reading, you degenerate," he whispers against the shell of her ear, "punch your friend in the teeth like a productive member of society."
Sigyn nudges him disapprovingly, but stifles a laugh, and seems to have found her voice again. She plucks at the single page remaining in the chapter. "I'm almost done, Sif," she entreats, giving Loki another gentle shove when he gleefully interjects that no, no she isn't. "Just give me five minutes; I'll be right down."
"Fine," Sif says, rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands, but her tone is still warm. "You have two."
Sigyn's smile fades to a look of deliberate concentration as she dives back into the book with new energy, determined to tackle the passage in the time allowed and despite her mind's natural tendency to wander. Loki tries to divert her again, only managing a syllable before she very softly clasps a hand over his mouth, and whatever he was going to say becomes muffled laughter against her palm.
There were, of course, more efficient ways to share a book, but none quite so entertaining. She inevitably takes longer to reach the end of the open pages than he does. He'd made a game of it: watching Sigyn's face as he waited for her to catch up, trying to guess exactly where she was. In this case, the end of the chapter sees something sudden, horrible, (and in retrospect, heavily foreshadowed), happen to a character of which he knew her to be particularly fond, and he's just dying to watch her expression when she hits those last few lines. Sigyn has the unlucky habit of feeling much, and deeply, and openly, and her face conceals very little. Her warm, honey-brown eyes trace the lines of text, brows furrowing as something like dawning outrage begins to creep into the set of her features, and—
Something catches him under the arm, and with one forceful tug, his brother has hauled him to his feet. "I was reading—" he objects as soon as he's found a solid footing, but his brother is oblivious to his indignation, a broad grin stretching across his face.
"She's reading; you're stalling. Come along, I'll go mad if I'm made to sit still a moment longer. Or," his grin widens, his tone grows challenging, "are you still too embarrassed from the last time I trounced you?"
Loki bristles. Thor is joking, of course, but it lands a little too close to the truth. With a measured breath, he schools his expression into something less prickly. "Fine, fine," Loki concedes, shrugging free of his brother's grasp.
"Wait—"
Sigyn had arrived at their meeting place, enthusing over the Hawk she'd found perched on her roof when she left that morning, and the lovely feather it had shed. He pauses midway down the steps to glance over his shoulder, and she draws it from her boot— her favoured hiding place for all such treasures— lays it carefully between the pages of the book as a marker before resting it on the step and getting to her feet.
"I did promise Sif a match," she smiles at him as she catches up, and takes her place besides the other girl. "We could always make it two-on-two," she suggests, and glances hopefully from Sif to Thor and himself, then back again. Sif shakes her head before Thor can agree, her stare reproachful.
"Later. You give me one good bout, and then you can lark about all you like, alright?"
"Alright," Sigyn echoes ruefully, before conceding and turning to consider training weaponry. She eases a wooden shield away from the rack and on to her left arm, and after a moment's hesitation, settles on a spear, as usual. Her real weapon of choice isn't an option— a difficulty they have in common. Sigyn takes a deep breath to steady herself before turning back to the ring, and colliding with Thor as he reaches for a greatsword. "Sorry, sorry! Just… distracted, I guess," she offers, but his brother's response is a good-natured chuckle and a raised eyebrow as he takes in her unease.
"You can't be afraid of her," he begins, a cheering hand clapped against her shoulder. "Take courage, Sige, trust your talents, drink in the thrill of battle—" Thor's smile brightens as something occurs to him, "pretend she's a Frost Giant!"
"Thor," Loki hisses sharply. He'd been watching the exchange from a step behind his brother, and now comes to his side. Sigyn's tensed visibly, any progress Thor had made setting her at ease now vanished, but his brother doesn't seem to have noticed, and still looks terribly pleased with himself.
"What?" he begins incredulously, still cheerful. "You don't think killing one will make her feel better?"
Loki's eyebrows furrow, retort ready, but Sigyn, perhaps sensing the altercation brewing, intercedes. "I hope I never have reason to," she says before he can reply, her voice soft. "We aren't at war with them anymore."
Thor smiles down at her, already considerably taller, and chuckles to himself at that, as though he's found it endearingly childish from the lofty height of his year-and-a-half's seniority. "You don't treat with monsters, Sige, you slay them." She braves a weak little smile in response, but doesn't look encouraged so much as stunned. "I promise you, first one we encounter— all yours," Thor gives that same shoulder an affectionate pat before releasing her and starting towards the far end of the ring, testing the weight of his chosen practice sword as he goes.
She then turns to Loki beside her, and the look she gives him is familiar: appreciative but gently reproachful.
Loki's mouth works for a moment. He's usually so good with words, they come to him as easily as breath, but he's struggling now, half-formed thoughts dying on his lips, disarmed by her placating expression: something like an apology, something about his brother's complete lack of tact and remarkable ability to continue speaking with his entire foot stuffed in his mouth, something to make her laugh. Something about how if she isn't going to be outraged, she could at least let him do it on her behalf.
"Sigyn!"
She starts at Sif's voice behind her, impatient verging on exasperated. "Coming!" she calls over her shoulder, and she shoots him a guilty little smile before she scurries away to the other aspiring shieldmaiden. Thor's made space for them away from the ásynjur, and gestures enthusiastically towards the weapons. Loki sighs, and with a cursory glance at the provided weaponry, settles for a shorter sword, not unlike Sif's. Something as large and unwieldy as the one Thor's chosen would be a hindrance, but it has to be sturdier than Fandral's saber to stand up to it. His brother's so anxious to get started he's practically bounding in place when Loki faces him, errant little sparks crackling by his fingertips.
They have Fandral announce a start, and the courtyard rings with the clashing of wood and metal. Loki is faster, more careful, keeps his distance from his brother's wilder, more powerful swings, but Thor has far better reach. Loki narrowly darts out of the way of a swipe with the greatsword and curses under his breath in frustration. His instinct is to get up inside of Thor's guard, too close for the longer weapon to be effective, and he longs for his daggers. He can feel the tempting weight of them, in the little pocket of space where he's stored them with his magic, but he grits his teeth and resists.
He steals glances at the other match out of the corner of his eye. Sigyn's having the opposite problem, using the reach of her spear to keep Sif at bay.
His brother's smiling, laughing, goading as he tries to lure Loki into a direct confrontation. There's nothing like that going on behind him. Sif's eyes are hard, face set deadly serious as she swings at the other girl with well-practiced brutality. Sigyn deflects each strike, this one splintering her shield, and retaliates with a ferocity that should not suit her. There's a nervous glint in her eyes, though, in stark contrast to Sif's steely confidence.
If he didn't know better, it would look as though they were trying to kill each other, the intensity born from familiarity, and countless hours training against one another. He's fairly certain that recently, Sif has been spending more time at Sigyn's house than her own.
A sidelong glance catches the moment Sif slips— a loose flagstone shifting under her back foot and throwing off her balance. It's only an instant before she recovers, but in that moment her guard drops and there's no way Sigyn hasn't seen the opportunity.
She doesn't take it.
Thor must be watching as well, because he groans when Sigyn hesitates, just keeps her defensive position and waits for Sif to catch her footing.
A moment later, blade locked with his brother's, he hears her spear clatter to the ground, and after that, Sif knocking her legs out from under her and the dull thud of a body hitting the cobblestone pavement, a breathless cry. He sneaks another look, and sure enough Sif has her pinned to the ground with her arm twisted behind, knee driven into Sigyn's back as she struggles to free herself for a moment, then concedes, settling against the stonework with a resigned sigh.
Their fights always end the same way. He knows the feeling all too well.
Thor gives a powerful shove, sending him reeling backwards, and Loki very nearly ends up in a similar position. He hisses in frustration as he rights himself, the culmination of so many little annoyances simmering to the surface. His brother looks a little too sure of himself, and it's no wonder he always wins, fighting like this., fettered by the constraints of what their instructors consider proper. Well, their instructor isn't here, yet.
Just this once, he's not ending up in the dirt.
Time to remind Thor what he can really do.
He side-steps another swing and strikes with his own sword, Thor's smile widening at his sudden enthusiasm as they clash again. It's tricky, disguising the necessary wave of his hand as an attempt to regain his balance, but—
Loki doesn't evade in time, and the blade connects with his shoulder, sending a splatter of blood across the masonry.
Thor freezes the instant he sees it, eyes wide, and Loki lunges, wrenching the sword from his grasp with a well-placed strike and ending the swing an inch from Thor's throat. "Ha!" He lets out a satisfied crow, but the victorious smile fades as his brother's eyes quickly change from bewilderment to blazing fury, and he can feel what may be a crackling shift in the air around him raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The familiar reflex to bolt kicks in, but before he can spring out of his enraged sibling's reach, there's a hand on his neck, then his shoulder, and he turns to find Sigyn has thrown Sif off of her and hurried to his side.
"Loki, are you— where—?" She murmurs as she frantically checks him over, and his heart sinks as she examines her hands, which come away clean from the bloodied fabric of his shirt.
"He's fine, Sigyn," Thor says, jaw tight, and eyes narrowed. "One of his little tricks."
Loki grimaces, bracing himself for her reaction as he reluctantly releases the illusion, the blood splashed against the ground and soaking his clothes vanishing in a flash of emerald light. Sure enough, when she looks up at him, her eyes are shining with betrayal. He chuckles nervously, his natural showmanship withering under her wounded gaze. "Ta-daa...?" Without a word, she turns on her heel and walks away, collects her lost spear and racks the borrowed equipment, then up the steps and out of the training ring towards the edge of the courtyard. "Sige, wait—"She doesn't stop, and turning he finds himself faced with nothing but disapproving glares.
Thor's still scowling at him, Sif's expression is a truly impressive display of contempt, and from his seat upon the steps, Fandral is watching him eyebrows raised. "Excellent work, Loki," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "truly outstanding."
He spares a quick, pointed look at the other boy as he tears after her, scooping the book from its place on the step as he goes. He catches up just as she's reached the shadows of a still-snowy corner, her back kept to him. He can see her busy herself by undoing her braid, fingers combing uneasily through the auburn tresses, beginning to plait it again, and then restarting.
"Let's take a break. We could read some more," he begins, hopefully, fingers drumming against the book's cover. No response, and if anything she turns away more completely.
"Look, I'm sorry I cheated. I'd never do that against you, I swear it; It was only meant for— It's just… Thor," he sighs, rests his face in his hand as he thinks. "Don't you get tired of ending up under Sif's boot, again and again?" Sif isn't her sister, but that comes with its own complications.
She doesn't answer for a second, still tense, and then, very quietly, "She disarmed mum, the last time she was over." His eyes widen, startled, and he can see the curve her face as she shifts, a little twinge just shy of a smile, a familiar mixture of pride and heartbreak. "I can't keep up with her, anymore." The smile disappears, and the breath she lets out is shaky. Her voice is thick. "Even Aesir can bleed out… And quickly," she gives up on the braid, just wringing the bundle of hair in her hands. "I saw blood; I— from the ground I couldn't tell where you'd been struck, I—" Sigyn lets a discouraged hiss slip through her clenched teeth and her fingers rake through more aggressively than before, leaving a disheveled cascade of copper waves, the tie still caught around her fingers.
His eyebrows knit together, that cold, guilt-ridden discomfort spreading through his chest as he finally pieces together what's happened. She was already uneasy, her cheerful disposition a fragile veneer over troubles stacked precariously atop one another, and he's just sent them toppling.
"Sige," he begins carefully, moving closer to his friend, and only proceeding when she doesn't seem to mind. "Look, even if someone were hurt— which, given what we're doing, is bound to happen eventually— it won't be like last time," he gestures up towards the palace walls with a nod of his head, catches her eyes following him. "We're a minute from the healers, here. Still, I… I am sorry I scared you."
"And Thor," she adds, back still to him.
Loki rolls his eyes. "Thor's just upset that I got the better of him. I'll stop doing it when he stops falling for—"
"And. Thor," Sigyn repeats more firmly.
"And Thor," Loki concedes. A glance over his shoulder finds the others spectating, and he does feel a sharp twinge of remorse in his older brother's direction. Her rigid posture has slackened slightly, and he can catch her stealing glances like she wants to face him, but she's still not entirely ready to leave her corner, ankle-deep in a melting snowdrift. He joins her, wet snow crunching under his boots, leans against the cool brickwork of the wall, smiles at her. "Gentle Sigyn. You know you worry too much?"
"I'm more of a worrier than a warrior," she admits quietly.
"And it seems, more loving of wordplay than swordplay." Her eyes dart back towards him for a moment— he can see that they're glassy— but there's a twitch at the corner of her mouth as she thinks.
"Words are said to be mightier than swords," she says after a moment's pause, turning ever so slightly towards him. It's a game, now. She can't resist games.
"Only with a rapier wit." It's so easy to fall into this pattern with her, this easy back and forth, a friendly rally of an idea or a joke until they can't remember where they started.
Back across the courtyard, Sif climbs out of the recessed training ring and rolls her eyes. "If you two are done flirting?" she shouts.
Loki turns to her, grinning. "We're not flirting, we're flyting—"
Sigyn shakes her head, and there's a genuine smile creeping across her face, now. "Far too friendly for flyting."
"—also alliterating, apparently," Loki calls back over his shoulder as an addition. Loki faces Sigyn again, now able to look her in the eye, and then after a pause, softly, "I am so sincerely sorry, Sige."
She thinks for a moment, lips moving silently as she test the feel of the response, the bounding cadence, and then, "you're lucky I like you, Loki."
"So very, very lucky," he agrees, which startles her, and he can only smile at that. "Shall we?" Loki offers her his arm (very unnecessarily) to help her down from the tiny snowdrift, and she accepts, with an appropriate mock-seriousness, which she manages to maintain for all of two seconds before a supressed giggle crinkles her nose, and she lets out that wonderful kind of laugh that's more of a snort.
He has one last question as they make their way back to their companions, and the chilly reception no doubt awaiting him. "When you were suggesting two-against-two… You were trying to get Thor and me on the same side, weren't you?"
"It never ends well when you compete, it's just too…" her eyes light with a devious, delighted little smile that can only mean one thing, and he waits, eyebrows raised, watching expectantly, "…charged."
Loki cackles, a little at the joke itself, and mostly at how terribly proud of it she is. The rest is relief: if Sigyn's making terrible puns unprompted, she must be feeling better. He's already contemplating solutions to avoid this concern again—a feigned vulnerability is a viable strategy, and not one he's willing to part with long term. If he were to devise some way to signal to her that he was all right, that it's all part of a plan…
It's a good idea; he never does get around to it.
Thor's waiting for him in the ring, still grouchy, his solid arms folded across his chest. "You cheated," he accuses.
Loki passes the book back to Sigyn, who stops at the steps and sits back down in their spot from before. She opens the book, but keeps her eyes on the brothers, in case she needs to diffuse another altercation. Without looking down, she draws the hawk feather from the pages, and carefully slips it back into her boot beside the slim hunting knife concealed there.
Loki ends up mirroring him, crosses his own arms across his narrower frame, and rolls his eyes. "For all the foes you face will fight fairly?" Thor quirks a blond eyebrow. "Sorry, I've started and now I can't seem to stop. I—" when he glances back to Sigyn, she smiles at him, gently, encouraging, and he sighs. "I'll admit I went too far—"
"That was a dirty trick," Thor grumbles, sorely.
"That does happen to be my specialty."
"That—" His brother pauses, seems to look past him, the scowl on his face soon forgotten as a grin breaks out in it's place. "That's father." Loki turns on his heel to where Thor's eyes fall over his shoulder. Sure enough, in the distance, the bridge glows with rainbow light as the power of the bifrost courses through it— a sustained glow of a few seconds, but longer than the single burst that would mark the transportation of a few individuals: the Einherjar returned from Vanaheim.
"Race you!" Thor's already picked up a jubilant sprint, and Sigyn scrambles her feet, the two of them tearing out of the courtyard as fast as their legs will carry them. Fandral follows at a more leisurely pace, leaving the courtyard to the two dark haired teenagers.
Sif's mouth is drawn into a thin line as she studies him, but from the height of the courtyard they can see their more excitable friends racing full-tilt through the city streets, breathless laughter carrying, down towards the bridge, and she smiles a little, shaking her head as they vault over a railing to a lower terrace. Sigyn darts between the villagers milling about below— as Thor comes barreling through, they instinctually know to part.
Loki scoops the book, forgotten in her haste, waving it away to that place, just barely removed from the rest of space, that he can call upon with his magic, and the two start the long walk to the bifrost in chilly silence. Sif's parents are hard at work somewhere in the palace, pouring over documents and debating policy; she's in no hurry. Loki contemplates changing his pace to get out of lock step with Sif, but doesn't, and finally can't keep quiet any longer. "You're too hard on her."
"I'm the only one actually trying to help her," she replies tersely, eyes still forward. "The rest of you just play around, she'll never improve that way. Sigyn needs someone to push her, she's so…" she shakes her head, searching for the right word, eventually settling for soft-hearted, said with a quick glance over her shoulder, lest someone hear such a terrible condemnation.
"You're going to discourage her," Loki insists. "Sigyn's not exactly enamored with combat in the first place, and even less so since you've been trying to take her head off."
"I'm trying to keep her alive. We'll be allowed to venture outside of Asgard soon; I'm merely ensuring she's ready—"
"Oh please," he retorts with a sidelong roll of his eyes. "They're talking about letting us travel to Midgard… With Volstagg, at the very least. She's not aggressive, certainly, but she'll gain confidence, in time. It will be a long while before we face anything like actual danger, and she has been more cautious, since… well."
They reach the same plateau, opting for the stairs instead of the other two's more direct route over the balustrade, and Sif's jaw is still set stubbornly as she shakes her head again. "She isn't cautious, she's afraid. Thor might rush headlong into things, but at least he knows to start swinging when he gets there."
"If you honestly think Thor's sort of impulsive is more manageable than Sigyn's, you're welcome to switch with me." Silence between them, save their footfalls against the cobblestones and the distant bustle of the marketplace. "That's what I thought." Far below, he can see the distant shape of Thor as he skids to a triumphant halt at the start of the bridge, Sigyn's smaller figure a few seconds behind him. Loki and Sif exchange a look, and their brisk walking pace becomes a sprint.
They reach the centerline of the city, follow the straight path that leads through Valaskjálf itself to the Bifrost Bridge and the observatory. The bridge is alight with magic, pulses of energy traveling along the glassy surface, warriors marching back in loose formation, led by a single imposing figure atop Sleipnir's unmistakable silhouette.
They meet the returning army halfway across the bridge, Sif dashing into the crowd as Loki approaches his father. He's slowed Sleipnir to a walk, Thor following along beside him. It seems to come in waves, but the magnitude of his brother's power has recently outpaced his control, and he's asking after the details of the campaign with such enthusiasm that he's sparking again, blue-white electricity arcing between his fingers.
"Welcome home, Father."
Thor's face brightens at the sound of his brother's voice, and their father draws in a slow breath, looking from one to the other with his good eye. "My sons," he says in greeting, beckoning Loki closer. Drawing nearer, he can see his father's smile is weary.
Fandral's found his father and cousins, a group of fine-featured blonds off to the side of the bridge. There's no sign yet of Volstagg.
It makes another absence all the more conspicuous.
There's a flash of movement against the current of Einherjar, a slight figure in canary-yellow weaving between ranks of golden-armored men. Sif has caught up with her, but she keeps darting away, wandering this way and that with increasing urgency.
Something is wrong, and by Thor's troubled expression, he's noticed it too. Fandral's gone quiet, taking a step back from his family for a clearer look across the bridge. Loki's eyes dart back to his father, desperate for some explanation to ease the sinking feeling settling into his chest, and finds only that same solemn air. "Sigrun's daughter," he assesses.
Loki spins on his heel as Sif's voice rings out. There are a series of slanted stone posts spaced along the edge of the bridge's near side, and Sigyn has scrambled atop one to get a better look over the mass of returning warriors. Lady Sigrun has never been one to lag behind, and still no sign of her.
Sif's insisting she get down, but Sigyn isn't listening, instead calls for her mother, then again, growing frantic. There's a moment of hesitation, and then she springs to the next post to get farther along the bridge, then the next. She's usually sure-footed, but it's a very long way down, and though they're still over water, the current is unforgiving, and sweeps over the edge. Sif hastens around the advancing soldiers, struggling to catch up with this crystal-clear illustration of her earlier fears: Sigyn urged into recklessness by a blind panic. She loses her footing for an instant against the angled surface, but just barely catches herself.
Loki and Thor both start towards her at once, but from behind they hear a soft command to wait, and from the corner of his eye, Loki sees a flash of gold as his father just barely raises Gungnir. A strong breeze from over the sea sends her tumbling towards the safety of the bridge, and into Sif's arms.
Sif isn't chastising her, just rests an arm around her shoulder, which shake with the force of the unsteady breaths, the look in Sigyn's eyes pure dread. She knows.
There's a ripple through the ranks of the Einherjar and when Volstagg approaches her, his expression is heavy-hearted, his helm in his hands.
That worry solidifies into a horrifying certainty, its crushing weight in his chest pinning him in place. He takes a breath, wills his leadened limbs back under his control and tries to run to her again, but he's stopped by his father's hand on his shoulder, strong enough to keep him in place even when he tries to wrench himself free.
"Come along, boys," Odin says, gentle, but unmistakably a command. "Leave her be. Your friend is about to have a very trying day."
Author's notes:
Hello all! This will look familiar to anyone following me on AO3, I plan to upload what I have written here, over the next few days, in case anyone is interested. I made a writing blog, geminiJackdaw, on tumblr, where I shitpost about this a lot.
Obviously, this fic is assuming that there was some time between the last scene of Ragnarok and the first after-credits scene. I just want the poor bastard to be happy for a while before the beginning of IW, but there are going to be a few bumps yet before he gets there.
Originally, I had planned to NaNo this bitch and finish it by Endgame, but that's not going to be possible. I wanted to write something at least canon plausible, if not compliant, so I may have to revisit this after the 26th, either reworking the ending, reworking the whole thing, or just slapping an AU tag on this bad boy.
I''ve had the major beats of this plotted out for a very long time, and have read some other Logyn fics in the meantime, and I have noticed some similarities that I was already pretty committed to. I hope this is different enough to justify a few things they share. I've read Storm's Eye by ReneAusten on and AO3, and Jötunheimr by Aylithe on AO3 Parts 1 and what was written of 2) and was completely floored by both. They're both very different, I highly recommend both of them, and if anyone gets even a fraction of the enjoyment out of this that I got reading those, I'll be a very happy writer. These guys are like Olympic swimmers, and I'm not even in the kiddy pool. I'm in a ball pit. I am not worthy, seriously.
Conversely, I would also like to apologize in advance for character choices that basically come out of nowhere. I swear to god there was a thought process, which I may go through on the writing blog, if anyone's interested. Mostly just 'minor comic book or mythological reference that got way out of hand.'As there isn't an MCU Sigyn, and as ther isn't a WHOLE LOT to go off of in canon, I had to come up with something pretty much from whole cloth, so she's the "Ascended extra" type of OC. Comic book characters always have multiple different lives through different writers, anyway, so this is just... Ammy's take on a Sigyn.
From the bottom of my heart, I'd like to thank anyone who's read this far, and I sincerely hope you enjoy!