"Are you not pleased to see me, sweet Sigyn?" His voice is a smooth murmur as he nuzzles the hollow just behind her ear.
She moves away, "Did you expect me to welcome you with open arms? Twice now I have been informed of your death, and found that it has not been so. Your tricks can only deceive a kingdom for so long."
She has grown tired of grieving for a man not dead; tired of grieving for a man long lost. He does not seek redemption or salvation and will find neither in her.
"I have grown weary of your games, dear husband." She says as she turns to face him. His hair is longer now; coming just below his shoulders. There are deep shadows beneath his eyes; his skin pale grey, like those of corpses before set aflame. He is hollow, worn and ragged; a man more dead than alive.
"Did you mourn?" He asks, and it echoes in the silence of the room. It's haunting, the way he looks at her, and it sets a chill to the core of her bones.
"Would it please you if I had? I am forever faithful to you, Loki. The amount of tears I weep should matter not."
"It was not my intention to harm you, Sigyn." He reaches out to cup her cheek, "You are the only one who sees me as I am."
She looks away from him as a swell of tears gathers behind her lashes, "I cannot save you; I will not try. I will remain loyal to you, long after you leave this life, but I will not stand idle by and watch you end yourself."
"You are leaving."
"Yes." The word burns as it passes her lips and falls into the silent air.
"Please don't." He looks like a child; broken and miserable.
She kisses him then; it's slow and dry and it aches in a way she's never known.