He sees her when he returns to Asgard.
It's only a few fleeting moments as Thor and some guards take him to his dungeon cell but she's there, she truly is, standing by a window, her black hair pulled away from her face, so different from how he'd seen it before where it was long and free for him to run his fingers through and she's so close all he'd have to do is break away from his brother and the guards and reach for her hand, and her name is on the tip of his tongue but the muzzle cuts into his skin as he tries to open his mouth to speak, to whisper her name, to get her to just look at him-
But she doesn't because her gaze is drawn towards an Einherji who takes up all her attention and he's slowly, clumsily brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and she shifts away from him, doing it herself and saying something Loki can't hear and he'll kill this damn Einherji, how dare he, how dare he touch her like that-
Her focus shifts and finds his gaze and the world stops because she's looking at him and every single vision the Tesseract showed him comes back to him, both of them by the fire and under the night sky and watching two boys laughing as they run through a field of flowers while she holds his hand and leans up to kiss him and-
And it would be so simple to go up to her, to be the person he should have been, have the life he was meant to have with her with their sons but the time for that is past and he can't catch it again, can't make it happen, happiness is not meant for one such as himself, and this woman in all her brilliance should not be tainted by him, he will not allow it, cannot allow it, it couldn't happen it couldn't-
Her expression is curious, confused, with the barest hint of concern but it's not disgusted or hateful or afraid and all that conviction falls away from him and maybe the mortal's dying words had been right, maybe he does lack conviction, but after everything that trace of concern in her expression makes everything in him crumble and he both loves and hates her for it.
Before he can do anything, anything at all, Thor pulls him forward roughly and he nearly trips over himself and they turn a corner and-
And-
She's gone.
Before he can truly comprehend that, that she had been so close and so near to him and now he's lost her again, Thor shoves him into a small bedchamber and it takes Loki a minute of standing there before it sinks in that he's not in a dungeon cell, not being locked away into a small room with impenetrable (but not inescapable) walls and left in darkness and this must be Frigga's kindness, her consideration to him, and he wants to laugh and ask to be taken to a cell and refuse this but with the muzzle in place, he can't.
"I will see you in the morning, Loki," Thor says behind him and he doesn't bother turning around. "You are to remain here until Father can gather the Court." He hesitates, as if wanting to say more, wondering if he should say more, and Loki waits until he hears the door shut behind him, leaving him in darkness, just where he belongs, and he's strangely disappointed at Thor's refusal to say anything more but he decides it's better not to think about it, not to think about it at all, but then-
Then, instead, he thinks of her, of Sigyn, how she was there and how the Einherji who's stolen her from him dared to touch her and he's clenching his fists so tightly his nails cut into his palms and then he glances around and there are no vases or mirrors to smash but the bed is delightfully flammable and so Loki does just that with a quick spell and there's a table there as well so he adds that to the bonfire and the smoke fills the chamber fills his lungs but he doesn't care he doesn't care because she's gone and belongs to another now and-
And-
He's lost everything.
In Asgard, they lock him up in a small unfamiliar chamber and throw away the keys. He's not put into his old chambers-no longer a prince no longer requires the princely chambers no longer part of the family the family no longer wants him-but instead a quaint little dungeon cell awaits him, though it's not actually a dungeon, but for all intents and purposes it may as well be, and he thinks he would prefer that, actually, instead of the small rooms they give him instead, and he's not certain why.
He wonders what they did to his old chambers after hs untimely death, if they left it as it was, the only things missing the things they took to his funeral, or if they even bothered with that. After all, there was no body to burn, so why trouble themselves with burning a ship in his memory anyway? Or maybe they did burn everything, maybe when it was clear what became of him, they burned everything last bit of his belongings, anything he had ever touched, just to cleanse the evil from themselves and the golden palace and bright, shining Asgard.
They mustn't let his darkness taint their perfect Realm Eternal, after all, more than he already has.
Loki knows, of course, that they likely kept everything as it was and that is why he's not allowed back into his old rooms. Wouldn't want him finding some way to undo the spells on him, oh no, this muzzle must stay securely on and he must stay securely imprisoned in these walls that don't welcome him have never welcomed him will never welcome him again.
So he amuses himself by sitting and staring out a window most days. He is not allowed out, of course-useless guards stand watch outside his one and only exit, the chamber door, except they're not so useless he supposes, because he had tried to escape once only to be hit so hard he nearly blacked out and then Thor dragged him back into the chamber and he felt like a stupid little child again, locked into his rooms without supper because he had tripped someone and laughed at them or turned their ale into eels.
Thor, ever faithful Thor, tries to ask him what happened, why Loki set his room ablaze and forced the crown prince to come and put everything out, but he merely shrugs his brother off and finally Thor gives up, that familiar look on his face-troubled and concerned and angry and saddened and Loki just grins as much as he's able to under his muzzle because oh, now you care, Thor? Where was that concern on Midgard, he wonders, where was that concern before any of this ever happened, it is too little too late you damned traitor, save your tears before I rip your eyes out and give you something to truly cry about-
It seems strangely hilarious to him that Thor is trying so hard to keep him locked away as if his brother is trying to save him, when it was he who threw Loki off the Bifrost to his death in the first place, or-no, that wasn't right, but the reality is so terrifying too terrifying he can't accept it he won't it's easier to think that Thor threw him off instead of Loki simply letting go simply giving up-
His mind, Loki finds, is a strange and rather horrifying labyrinth to navigate these days.
He is left alone with his thoughts in his new room, and sometimes this reality terrifies him, because his own thoughts terrify him now, the pain and the strangeness of them and sometimes, sometimes, a numbness comes over him that is beautiful in its relief that it brings him from his own mind-funny, the thing he always valued most has now turned on him, and he laughs at himself, the sound muffled underneath the metal that covers his mouth and bites into his jaw and he wonders, if it were to be taken off, if it would leave pretty scars to forever remind him of where it was.
The numbness is welcome, Loki decides, and it comes with increasing frequency. One day he realizes this is because he's no longer near the Tesseract. It had taken all his emotions-and despite his best efforts, he had always been an emotional creature-and made them worse, stronger, harder to escape or ignore or control. It wasn't in control of him, not nearly, but it did influence him in some way and now without it, Loki is back to that feeling he had just before he'd let go of Gungnir, after he heard Odin reject everything he'd done-for him, for all of them-that strange numbness that is not numbness of body but of spirit and mind, and Loki welcomes it so much, this break from everything, and Loki clings to it like it's his last hope for survival and in a way he supposes it is.
He curls up into the numbness like a blanket, protecting him from everything else, including himself, and he thinks maybe he could live this way, just not feeling anything at all anymore. Or, at least, he can live this way for however longer he has left, which isn't very long at all he thinks.
And he's fine with that.
Sometimes the muzzle is taken off.
It's a necessity, he supposes, because the only time it's taken off is when a servant brings him his food and he's forced to eat, forced to keep himself well and full and not waste away to nothing until he's dust and let that dust be spread into the air and scattered and lost forever. Thor watches him as he eats and he finds it amusing how Thor has suddenly become his caretaker of a sort, amusing and sad and infurating all at once. They share no words during these periods, Loki forcing down the food and drink quickly just to get Thor away from him.
Thor didn't use to attend these little meals, but when Loki nearly killed the last servant who tried to put the muzzle back on, well, perhaps he found a need to. Thor brings him his meals, takes off the muzzle, then watches silently as Loki eats, then puts the muzzle back on and takes away his dirty dishes. Loki takes a perverse sort of pleasure in seeing the Mighty Thor be something of a servant to him, bringing him food and taking away his dirty dishes like some common palace worker they used to torment when they were boys.
He could get used to this, he decides.
And then, one day, Thor doesn't appear. Loki doesn't think much of this, doesn't even mind the growl in his stomach as the time for the midday meal passes. Perhaps Thor no longer cares and is content to let him starve to death. Loki finds he likes this break in routine, likes that Thor is no longer looming over him with arms crossed over his chest and that look on his face and maybe Loki should cut the skin from his face so he never has to see that look again, that angry concerned saddened tired despairing stern look his older brother has so often these days whenever he looks at Loki.
It is only when he hears the familiar shifting of the guards outside his room does he come up from his blank state, slowly crawling out of the numbness enough to be aware of his surroundings again, and then he hears the doors open and footsteps come in except-
Except it's not right, they don't sound right, they're soft and light and small and nothing like Thor's thunderous stomps that threaten to crack the floor and destroy the room and Loki merely thinks that they're stupid to send a female servant to him after the last servant nearly died at his hands and he doesn't bother to turn around to see this one and after a moment of silence, the servant having stopped behind him, waiting for acknowledgement that she'll never receive, the footsteps pick back up, slower this time, and the servant comes around and he sees a flash of gold and white and-oh, anyone but her, not her, not like this, not her not her not her not her-
"My Prince," she says softly, so softly, oh Valhalla her voice is exactly as he imagined it would be, soft and warm and beautiful and quiet and she's here, she's standing here in front of him, black hair pulled back again into a simple braid that circles the back of her head, her golden and white healer's dress bright in the sunlight and the room is so warm now and she's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and-
I am not your Prince, Loki wants to say, wants to scream until his voice is raw, how can she still see him like that when he's in chains and muzzled like some damn dog and don't call me that don't call me that don't call me that-
"Loki," she says again, firmer this time, and he blinks. Focuses. She meets his gaze steadily, no judgment in her expression. Only kindness. She lifts up a tray, loaded with his usual midday meal of bread, meat, potatoes, apples and water. "I'm sorry this is later than usual. Thor was called away, and... well, we had to find someone who would bring this to you." She walks over to the table and his gaze momentarily flicks down to her hips, watching how they move underneath her dress, before going back up to her face, though he can't see it now that she's turned away from him.
Her movements are slow, careful, graceful, so different from Thor's, who had attempted to be quiet in the beginning so as to not startle Loki, and finally gave it up after a while and went around in his usual fashion, slamming the plate down and generally making a fuss.
"I'm going to be taking care of you from now on," she says, laying out his meal. "And not only for meals. I'm to be your... companion, of sorts."
No. No no no no no no leave this place gentle one and never come back never look back never think on me again I am going to be your ruin I will not have your blood on my hands either no I do not deserve this I do not deserve you the Tesseract showed me that this could never be should never be not now not after everything-
Loki focuses. Takes a deep breath through his nose. Then realizes she's staring at him expectantly. He sees that his meal is ready and his chair is pulled out, and he slowly rises, walks over to her with stiff and aching legs, and does not dare to even brush against her as he sits down. She comes to stand beside him, slightly in front of him, and looks down at the muzzle.
He stills. Of course. She has to take it off.
There's a frown on her face as she considers it, and Loki finds he cannot read her expression past that. What is she thinking? He wants to know, wants her to lean down and whisper all her secrets in his ear, craves to know what goes on in that mind of hers that she would show no fear at all in being in his chambers, alone, and about to do something that had killed nearly killed another servant.
She lifts her hands to the muzzle, not pausing even once, only slowly bringing them back behind his head and oh, his entire body lights up at the feeling of her fingers going through his hair and behind his neck and he shivers, he actually shivers, his body breaking out in gooseflesh and she doesn't notice or if she does she makes no indication that she's noticed and her fingers find the latchings in back and undo them and then-
Then the muzzle is off and away from his sight, unlike Thor who had always placed it on the table, almost as a sort of reminder for what awaited him at the end of the meal.
His body is still tingling from her touch.
He works his jaw a little, getting it used to moving again after so long of being sealed shut. She goes over by the window and stands, hands clasped in front of her, and simply watches him.
There is something in her gaze, something besides kindness and warmth and love-no, not love, not yet, not ever-that makes him stare back at her. He wonders if she's thinking of the day he saw her in the corridor, outside the healing rooms, in the arms of that Einherji, and how she had calmly met his gaze then as well.
"You should eat before it gets cold," she says gently, nodding to his plate, breaking eye contact. "At least the apples and the meat, if nothing else."
Loki looks down at his food for a long moment, having forgotten it was there, then looks back up at her.
"What are you doing here?"
It takes him a second to realize that that was his voice speaking, his mouth forming the words, his vocal cords dry and cracked and weakened from disuse. It is so faint he wonders if she ever heard it, but she's looking at him and he realizes yes, she did, and she's pondering how best to answer him because she's silent and his heart starts to drop and he realizes maybe she's exactly like all the others who will tiptoe around him and lie to him and use him and yes that's it that's it exactly she's like the rest she's not that good pure brilliant beautiful lovely perfect-
"I offered to come here," she finally says and he thinks he would have been less surprised if the floor had suddenly fallen out from under him and left him drifting in darkness darkness without end floating oh no not that again anything but that not that not that- "Prince Thor feared that he was doing you more harm than good and the Queen wished for someone to take his place more permanently. I offered and they accepted. So here I am."
He stares at her. Focuses on how the sunlight shines in her hair. Then says, "Why?"
She stares back at him, expression unreadable, stance unreadable, why was she so blank to him when he could read people easily or perhaps that had only been with the help of the Mind Gem and briefly, briefly, he wishes for it now, wishes to step inside her mind and look around and figure out how she works and how she even exists but-
But-
No.
"Because," she says slowly, "I want to help."
Ah, he thinks, and there it is, as he had been expecting and should have realized would come up sooner or later: She had no interest in him except for her own means. She wants to help, only to say that she healed him, to say that she's the greatest healer in the Nine, greater than even Eir herself, she has no use for him outside of that and he hates her he hates her he hates her so much-
"And because no one deserves to be left alone like this," she says, gaze flicking briefly to the muzzle which is somewhere behind him.
He doesn't hate her.
"Eat," she says sternly, so sternly it takes him aback and he follows her command without realizing, picking up his fork and slowly eating. This lasts only for a few seconds before he speaks again.
"You came here of your own free will," he says slowly, his voice low. There has to be a catch here, he thinks. No one is that good. "Because you want to help."
"Yes," she says, so simply, as if it could ever be that simple.
"You pity me, then," Loki says, thinking he's found it at last. She's a healer, a compassionate and kind woman at least, and how better to prove that than by helping the most pitiable creature in all the Nine Realms? He hates her for it, hates her and her beautiful warm brown eyes and long black hair that he wishes wasn't tied up.
"I don't pity you, no," she says. "Pity isn't the same as, say, compassion. The two are different, separate things. To pity something is useless."
He stares at her.
"Eat," she repeats firmly, and he ignores it this time to simply look at her. She stares back at him expectantly, then that expression fades into something contemplative, curious, her head tilting slightly to the side as she considers him, and he wonders if the skin of her neck is soft and what it would taste like and how it would make her shiver.
"You never asked for my name," she says suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.
"What?"
"My name," she says. "You never asked for it."
And there, he realizes, he's made a mistake. She could take it as him just being an uninterested, uncaring former prince or a mannerless villain who would sooner slit her throat than learn her name. But this woman, she's smart, smarter than perhaps he had given her credit for, smarter than others perhaps give her credit for, and she remembers how he looked at her that day in the corridor, and how he looked at her when she came into his chambers, and she knows that something is not right here, doesn't quite fit, he knows something about her and she intends to find out what it is and he smiles, dry lips cracking and stretching painfully, and oh, he loves her.
He doesn't even pretend to be anything like she expects. He does not say "oh, did you expect me to care about the name of a simple healing wench?" He does not say, "hold your tongue unless you wish it to be removed from your mouth."
All he says is, "I need not ask for something I already know."
"And how do you already know of it?"
And there, Loki knows, is where he sinks low, because this is a game, this is him reeling her in with a hint of what he knows, and he knows she won't be able to resist that, oh no, she'll want to know everything and he won't give it to her and so she'll come back again and again and again and again if only for the chance that he may let slip something, and he is betting on this, because once she has what she wants she'll leave, leave forever, duty or not, and he will not allow that.
"I don't tell my secrets," Loki says, and she stares at him again. "How do you think I've come across it?"
"I don't know," she says, her tone slightly wry. "If I knew, I would not have asked."
He chuckles at that a little, the sound off, awkward. He hasn't laughed in so long. "Then you can survive without knowing for a bit longer," he says, meeting her gaze directly, "Sigyn."
The name tastes like honey on his tongue, sweet-no, not honey, that is too sweet, it is something softer with more subtlety that one must keep on their tongues for a while in order to taste everything, because underneath the first flavour is something hidden, something bold and strong and he is doomed, so utterly doomed and all he can do is laugh about it, about this woman who has captured him so firmly without even trying, not realizing what they could have had, what they will never have, and he wants to curse and laugh and scream and cry and he should hate that she does this to him but he doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't hate her. He could never.
Sigyn frowns, then shrugs and leans against the wall. "Keep your secrets, then," she says, and he smiles to himself because he has her, she is his and he is hers and he will keep this game going for as long as he wants her near.
They are both utterly doomed, he thinks, and he will do nothing to stop it, because he is nothing if not completely selfish, and these moments with her are worth the horror that will follow later, the horror he will lead her to, the darkness he will taint her with, and he cares not.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sigyn."
"A pleasure, Loki."
When he is done with his meal, she walks past him, and briefly the smell of the healing rooms overwhelms him-herbs for potions the stench of the things they use to clean the rooms and maybe just underneath that a hint of blood and it doesn't fit her not at all and then-
Then she brings the muzzle out and any thoughts of her scent vanish from his mind. She looks at it, then meets his gaze, and after a beat she comes forward and lifts it to his face.
"Orders," she says simply, regretfully, and he keeps his gaze on her face as those fingers of hers go through his hair and onto his neck, touching his spine and skin and she's so warm and then-
And then-
The muzzle firmly in place, Sigyn hesitates before shaking herself and picking the empty plate and glass up. "I'll return soon," she says quietly, and he wonders what the point of that is, because it is not as if they'll be able to speak to each other now.
But he lets her go. He watches her as she leaves.
And, true to her word, she returns to him a short time later with a stack of books.
And he loves her.
She returns the next day as the morning sun shines into his room and he hasn't bothered getting out of bed yet, there's not much point, all he can do is lie in bed or sit in the chair and stare out the window, and today the window holds no fancy for him, he finds he dreads looking out of it, looking at the freedom he should have and won't have for a very long time, maybe never again, and he blinks when she comes to stand over him, hands on her hips, looking very hilariously like a mother about to scold her misbehaving child.
"Get up," she says, and if it weren't for the muzzle, he'd respond with, "Come here," instead and pull her down onto the bed with him. As it is, he only raises an eyebrow at her before sitting up. He's not entirely certain he actually slept at all during the night-maybe he only laid there and stared up at the ceiling, or maybe he fell into a dreamless sleep that was easy to forget, who knows. His body feels fatigued as he stands, but that's no sure sign of anything. He often feels tired and numb these days, a weariness that seeps into his very bones that he's learned to ignore.
He goes to sit in his usual chair and he notices that she's brought quite a few other things with her this morning. His usual morning meal sits before him, but so does a knife that is not meant to cut his burned bread and spread butter on it, a few phials of something, and a new chair at the side of the table. She takes off his muzzle and throws it aside carelessly, and he can't help smirking at that, and he watches as she sits down in the new chair and begins eating off her own plate.
She catches him staring after a moment and jabs her fork in the direction of his food. "Eat," Sigyn says, and Loki slowly follows her command. His gaze flickers between the things she's brought with her, vaguely thinking it's brave and trusting of her to put something as dangerous as a knife within his reach, and he wonders absently if the phials are poison, but that was silly, though maybe not, maybe he should reach for one and open it and sniff it to make certain-
She brought a knife. To the table. And set it down in front of him.
Loki glances at her then, this healer, this woman, who's staring absently out the window, her gaze distant and her thoughts elsewhere, and something about this doesn't fit, isn't right, what is it what is it what is he not seeing and then he realizes she doesn't think him a threat.
He is unthreatening towards her. He is like a puppy, who can occasionally bite hard but it only stings and is otherwise cute and fluffy and useless, and this is not a show of trust because who would ever be foolish enough to trust him, not her, certainly not her not ever not if she was smart and she was smart, she was intelligent, and something about this still didn't fit and didn't she know he could simply reach over now and take it and hurt her with it and-
And-
No. No, he would not, could not. Not against this woman. Loki focuses, gaze falling to his plate, and he begins to eat again. The realization that he would not harm Sigyn unnerves him in more ways than one, and he's not certain how to process it at first. Why wouldn't he, he wonders. Because she is beautiful? Because he knows what could have become of them one day, if he had not made the choices that he had? Does he feel some sort of misplaced sentiment for her? He was done with all that, that sentiment, that useless thing.
Loki ponders the knife and ponders the healer next to him and realizes she fascinates him completely.
"It's for your hair."
He looks at her. Takes a second. Then he says, "What?"
"The knife," Sigyn says, finishing the rest of her water. "I'm going to use it to cut your hair. You haven't been taking care of yourself."
Loki stares blankly at her. Had he been so obvious in his thoughts, he wonders, that even she could read him and answer a question he'd been thinking but not voicing?
"So," Sigyn continues, standing from her chair and picking up her plate. "Today we're going to fix a few things."
"My hair," Loki repeats flatly. Absently he runs a hand through it and frowns when he feels the slickness of grease and dirt in it, and notes how much longer it's gotten since he had returned to Asgard. "I see."
She nods, then motions to his plate for him to finish off his meal. He does, and she leaves, and she leaves the knife right there in front of him, and all he can do is stare at it for a long moment. He still does not reach for it, and before he can contemplate even doing so and what he'd do with it once he had it in his hands, Sigyn returns, books in her arms again.
She sets the books down and he drifts off again, gaze pulled towards the window despite himself. There's nothing but the cosmos laid out before him and he's stuck here, in this tiny bloody room with a woman he should have never seen or be with, waiting for-for what, exactly? Odin's judgment. His death, most likely.
Would Odin be that cruel? Yes, Loki thinks, he would, without a doubt, this was the man who waged war on countless realms and won and then found a baby in a temple and took it for himself and changed it from monster to god except not completely, never completely, there was always something of the wicked lurking behind that mask and in his mind and now it is out for all to see, this monster he is, only they think of him as an insane powerhungry tyrant instead of what he truly is, or perhaps Odin has laid all his shames bare for everyone to see, everyone to know, everyone to whisper about and shake their heads and sigh, "I always knew there was something wrong with that one. So unlike his brother. It makes sense now; he's one of them."
"Come on," Sigyn says, breaking into his thoughts. He stares at her and notices her wiping her hands off on a cloth, and he wonders what she'd done to get her hands wet. Then he realizes what she wants him to get up for, and Loki stares at her, not entirely certain he wants to go along with this-who cares what he looks like? Certainly not he, not anymore, he used to but now that's all sort of vanished from his mind, why should he care what he looks like when now it's only a cover for what lays beneath, behind the mask Odin put on him as a baby, and he wonders if she knows what he truly is and if she did would she still bother with him no of course not because who would ever bother themselves with him?
"My prince," Sigyn says, waiting, expectant. "Please get up."
He doesn't. He sits back instead, stares at her, wonders what she'll do, will she force him?
Sigyn crosses her arms over her chest and sets her jaw and he thinks maybe this hadn't been his best idea. "My prince, I'm certain you've been preoccupied with other things lately so you likely haven't noticed how you and this room smell. I ignored it yesterday, but if I'm to continue working here with you, I require fresh air to breathe so that I don't suffocate."
He blinks at her. He smelled? Is that what she just told him? Loki's torn between laughing and cursing; she was brave to speak to him in such a way.
"Now," she says, pointing to a part of the room he hadn't bothered using, where a simple bathtub lays. "Bath."
He licks his teeth underneath his lips and stares at the bathtub and decides she'd likely just throw a bucket of water on him if he refuses, so he stands and makes his way over to the tub. She's run the water already-now he knows why her hands were wet-and she opens one of the phials she'd had on the table earlier and pours the contents into the water.
She checks the temperature, nods to herself, then turns to look at him, blinking. "Do you intend to bathe in your numerous clothes, my Prince?"
"Do you expect me to undress in front of you?" he asks, then grins. "Or would you like me to?" She doesn't blush, much to his disappointment, so he tries again. "Or perhaps you'd like to undress me yourself? That is technically part of your occupation, isn't it?"
She looks at him, her expression unreadable, then she moves forward and slides her hand underneath the collar of his coat and begins sliding it off and it takes his mind a moment to catch up to what's happening, exactly, and he grabs her wrist and holds it tightly and stares down at her as she looks up to meet his gaze. She's not much shorter than him, he notices, just the right height so that if he leaned down to kiss her it wouldn't pain his neck or shoulders. Her brown eyes are warm and gentle but, as he looks closer, there's something strong hidden in them, something immovable, something unyielding.
He remembers what he stopped her from doing and finds his voice. Love is for children, as the flame haired spider had put so eloquently. And he does not love her, does not want her, she is simply a stupid, foolish woman who has willingly walked into this den where she will most certainly be ruined, all because of him, by him.
"I do not require your assistance," he hisses. She pulls her wrist out of his hand and steps back one step, still meeting his gaze, unflinching.
"Then don't be difficult," she says, and after a moment, she turns and leaves him to his own devices. Her back facing him, Loki watches her spread out the books on the table and then he turns around, undressing and stepping into the water. It's boiling hot, which makes him cringe, and he can feel the oils she's put into it. He lets his body become accustomed to the heat, laying down slowly, and surprises himself by finding it... pleasant. Muscles he hadn't even been aware were stiff slowly relax and Loki lets his head fall back until it rests on the cushioned edge. He closes his eyes, resisting the urge to let his mind wander-always a mistake, that-and instead focuses on the sounds coming from Sigyn.
She's moving things around, straightening up it sounded like, and getting things ready for when he was out of the bath. She moves quietly, gracefully, and he opens his eyes to watch her. She lays out clean clothes for him, simple tunic and breeches, then sets out vases of strong smelling herbs. The scent of some wild Asgardian flowers begins to fill the room, making him cringe.
"Are you trying to suffocate me now?"
Sigyn glances at him slyly and he's surprised to see a smile pulling the corners of her lips up. "If I were to suffocate someone, I think I'd try better methods, hm?"
He glances at the pillows on his bed and she follows his glance, then that smile that was playing at the corners of her mouth fades and her blank frown is back as she glances at him, then returns to her work.
"The scent of Asgardian wildflowers would be a kind way to suffocate someone."
"Better than the overwhelming stench of sweat and body odor," she shoots back. He glances away, realizing how long it'd been since he'd taken a bath. The Chitauri had not exactly been accommodating in that manner. He scratches his jaw, surprised by the amount of scruff he feels there, and realizes it has been a while since he'd taken a look at himself.
Well, what was the point? He was going to die soon, if Odin judged that to be proper and he most certainly would. Why bother prettying himself up when he'd be run through and left to bleed out onto the golden floors of Asgard soon?
"You're just being sensitive," Loki says, staring up at the ceiling, and there's a pause from Sigyn before he hears her turn around.
"Sensitive," she repeats. "Sensitive. Like a woman?"
He shrugs, letting her take her own meaning from it, and then she's beside him and glaring down at him, a hand on her hip.
"This woman regularly comes in contact with wounds that would make even the hardest of hearts and senses and stomachs faint," she says heatedly, her voice almost as hot as the temperature of the water. "I have put intestines back into the middles of men and I have sawed off their limbs when they could not be saved, often with the men awake during such a thing. I have wandered through battlefields to find the barely living and breathe life back into them, and mourned them when I could not. I have done this all without hesitation or weakness. I am not sensitive, Loki, and if you think me to be then you're a fool."
She turns on her heel and stomps off and he almost laughs, it's so strange hearing her feet hit the floor so heavily. Yes, he decides, he had been a fool. She was no mere noblegirl who batted her eyelashes at the warriors and hoped to become a bride and wife to one, mother to more. Sigyn was a healer and those who thought her weak or meek were wrong.
He loves her.
Sigyn comes back with a bucket and before he can protest, she's pouring water over his head and shoulders, wetting his hair. "I could do that myself," he says, moving back the curtain of soaking hair that covers his face now.
She stops, glancing at him, then looks away to her feet. "My apologies," she says, and her tone isn't as cold as he would have expected. He looks at her, then shrugs.
"Go on, then, if this is part of your duty," he says, and the word tastes bitter in his mouth, a reminder that she's only here for herself.
"If you're able to bathe yourself, I won't interfere," Sigyn says, moving away, and it takes everything in him to keep from reaching out and taking her hand in his own.
Loki clenches his fists underneath the water and then sets about taking care of himself, washing away years worth of grime and sweat and dirt and evil and darkness and pain and agony and he wishes it were that simple, he really does, to just be able to go into a tub of water and come out with everything washed away.
It was never that simple.
He emerges some time later and Sigyn looks away as he dries himself off and dresses in the clothes she laid out for him. Only when the breeches are securely on does she turn around, knife in hand, and his heart races and his muscles tense despite himself.
She's not going to stab you.
He goes over and sits down and she moves behind him, running her fingers through his still damp hair and he closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of her touch, wishing it would run down his back his spine and send those wonderful shivers all over his body again. Her hands stay where they are, however, and soon he hears the sound of her cutting through his hair, which almost reaches his shoulder blades by now, and he lets her, he lets this woman hold a knife so close to his throat, and he can't tell if he doesn't think her a threat or if he knows she would never hurt him.
He thinks of the Tesseract and the visions it showed him and he realizes it's very much the latter.
A while later, Sigyn comes around to stand in front of him, biting her bottom lip in a way that makes him want to do the same, just a little nibble. "It's not perfect," she admits, and he looks in a mirror she brought along. It's no longer greasy or dirty, he notes, and it's back to the length he had it before everything happened. A few shorter pieces were still visible and absently he runs his hand through his hair, attempting to smooth them down.
"They'll grow out," Sigyn offers, and it seems as if she's waiting for some kind of blow, and then he realizes she's waiting for his reaction.
Over so simple a thing.
"It's fine," he says, at a loss as to what else to say. She smiles, just a small one, but it lights up her eyes in a way he finds fascinating and wants to cause again.
"I'll let you shave yourself," she says, then hesitates. "Though I'll be watching."
He nods, not expecting anything else-though does Odin truly think Loki will kill himself before the trial, before he gets a chance to?-and begins taking care of that.
Soon, he almost looks like his old self, save for the dark circles under his eyes and his hollow cheekbones-which, admittedly, are filling out due to all the food they're giving him-and the slight expression in his eyes which tells of the not quite here-ness in his head.
Loki puts the mirror down, no longer wanting to examine himself.
Sigyn takes the knife and begins cleaning up, and Loki's gaze drifts to the window while she works. The cosmos continues on as it always has, the stars and far off galaxies and planets and realms shining, their lights dim compared to the glow of Asgard. And beyond that, he knows, lies a darkness so deep and dense that not even Asgard could shine for very long inside of it, the golden light muted and swallowed up and eventually killed, all under the gaze and hand of-
Loki jerks in his chair and tears his gaze away from the cosmos. He must ask Sigyn to bring something to block the windows out, sometime.
"Loki?"
He focuses on her, noticing the crease of worry in between her brow. It's the only sign she feels something is wrong, but it tells him everything. "Yes?"
"Are you well? You seemed lost in thought."
He resists the urge to snort or smirk. She has not yet seen him lost in thought. Or perhaps these days he's always lost in his thoughts-he'll readily admit at times it's harder to focus on things than it used to be. He imagines that, now, if he tries to read a book, it would take him several minutes and rereading of passages to actually see them and process them and know them.
Perhaps a part of him has always been this way. Everyone always knew there was something twisted in him, anyway.
"I was," Loki admits. "Waiting for a trial and the Court to condemn me to death does tend to leave one's mind wandering."
Sigyn frowns, and he can't tell if it's because of what he said, how he said it, if it didn't make any sense. The bath has lulled him into relaxation and, with that, very little energy to care. She glances down to the tray she's holding, as if considering what to tell him, and for once she's rather easy to read. Then her expression closes off, much to his annoyance, and it's back to as she was.
"Yes," she says quietly, "I suppose it would." Something in her tone makes him think she realizes that's not quite all the reason his mind wanders. She is perceptive, perhaps more perceptive than he, and briefly he wonders what else she sees about him, this beautiful wonderful intelligent warm woman. "I need to take these things back," she says, motioning to the tray. "I'll return in a while. Do you want anything?"
You, he wants to say. Instead he looks away to the books scattered on the table. "The keys to my dungeon would not be unwelcome."
"You have need of keys to escape?" Sigyn asks, and it cuts him to the core, that she knows him so well and yet he's told her almost nothing of himself. There's a teasing hint to her tone, a quiet laugh in her voice, and he wonders that she's so comfortable with him as to start joking with him.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Loki says. And it's not even that; of course he doesn't have need of keys to escape a dungeon, his prison cell. He could do that without even expending much effort.
What he lacks, Loki finds, is the will. Because death-even a slow, torturous, agonizing one and he does not doubt that the Allfather will make it slow-would be a far preferable fate than the one that awaits him if he happens to come across Loki again.
The merest thought of what he would do sends a cold shiver of horror down Loki's spine, despite the heavy heat that rests in his limbs from his bath. Yes, he decides, he will take death over whatever he will hand him, because as slow as his death by the Allfather's hand will be-
It will be nothing compared to what Thanos would do to him. Of that, Loki is certain.
"Loki."
He focuses on Sigyn again, escaping the darkness and horror of his mind once again thanks to her voice. "Yes?"
"How did you know my name?"
Ah, and so it comes to this again. Her curiousity is still brimming, the need to know how he knew of her, knew her name when they hadn't ever met, and Loki will draw this curiousity out as much as he can.
He smirks and leans back in his chair. "I don't give up my secrets so easily."
"You have far better and more important secrets to keep, I imagine," Sigyn says. "Unless, of course, the manner in which you learned my name is important. Something you don't want to speak about, or can't speak about, in which case I'm afraid I find my curiousity all the more piqued."
He should hate this, Loki realizes, how easily she sees through him, he should hate her and how she can look past his tricks and see the truth behind them. But he still will not tell her. She will not escape him that easily.
"Perhaps," he says mildly. "Or I simply heard it being spoken by one of the other healers, long ago, and remembered it."
Sigyn stares at him and he stares back and there's a tense silence that shouldn't really be tense, and he wonders if he's made another mistake somewhere-she throws him off kilter, this Sigyn, in way no one else has, not even the flame haired spider who thought she'd tricked him and made him reveal all his plans like some stupid, overly arrogant villain, when really he had let her think she won and unleashed the monster.
But Sigyn, she throws him off balance, she is of a chaotic nature herself despite the calm she brings him, nothing she does is expected or at least he does not expect it and he cannot quite seem to figure her out, not yet, maybe he doesn't want to and can't and never will and it terrifies Loki that he's okay with this.
He maybe even loves it a little.
"Then that would imply that I was worth remembering for some reason," Sigyn says, and something about this irritates Loki and he's not sure what. "So we're back to where we started. There's a reason you knew my name, and I would like to know what it is."
Loki bites back a scoff. "I always remember things I hear whispered between two people, or things I overhear when others don't realize I'm standing nearby in the shadows, listening to everything they say. How do you think I learn the secrets of others? Not because they tell me, surely, but because they spill them without knowing someone else is there to pick them up and store away for later use."
Sigyn stares at him for a long moment before blinking and straightening. "Perhaps it really is that simple. You overheard Eir or someone else calling for me, and now you're making up a story to make it seem far more grand than it actually is."
"Do you believe that, my lady?"
"No," Sigyn says simply, with a shrug. "And please, there's no need to call me by titles. I have none."
"And so, my lady, we're back to where we began," Loki says. "You wish to know and I will not tell you."
"And not simply because you enjoy being difficult," Sigyn says, peering at him, and Loki could kiss her right now, she's so brilliant and yet not, because she's falling right into his game, playing right along as he expected her to. Her curiousity and need to know will grow, and he will feed that need, nurture it, make sure it never goes away so then neither will she.
"You're a foolish girl if you think I would give everything away so easily."
She visibly bristles and he feels a short burst of pride at having finally gotten a reaction out of her, before she calms herself down. "I didn't expect it," she says, and from her tone he can tell she means it. "And I think you'll find I'm quite grown, so do not call me a girl again." With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, and when the door closes Loki surprises himself by laughing.
At least he was having some measure of fun before he died.
They develop a sort of routine over the next few days, her coming in the morning and staying until midday and leaving and returning and then she must leave for the afternoon and she returns in the evening, taking the muzzle off each time she brings him something to eat. He does not move as she takes it off, only breathes her in, clenches his fists, and then eats his meals. He does not harm her. He doesn't touch her at all.
She brings him books to read and sneaks in food other than the usual things he's given, after a while. She's careful not to bring him any magic books, he notices-distrusting of him, he wonders, or unable to sneak them in unlike the little delicacies she brings him? Who knows. He certainly doesn't.
She leaves him shortly after the evening meal each night and doesn't return until morning, and he finds himself missing her during the night, wishing she would stay, wishing he could press her into the bed and hear her sigh his name and see that black hair of hers spread out amongst the pillows, but he doesn't, she doesn't stay, it'll never happen, should never happen, but he can dream-and he dreams of it often.
And every day, at some point, she asks him, "How did you know my name?"
And every day, he smirks at her and maybe shrugs and says, "That is for me to know."
It irritates her, he can see that, but she hides it well beneath her calm and businesslike expression. But she lets it drop, unlike the little debate they had the first time she asked him, and he successfully manages to resist the urge to bring it up again and again, just to see if he can tease her, irritate her, make a nice little flush rise up into her cheeks. Best not to use all his cards all at once, Loki thinks, and keep this going for as long as possible.
As the days go by, he doesn't immediately notice that she leaves the muzzle off for longer and longer each day. She still puts it back on in the evenings, when she has to leave, her touch as gentle as always, still sending that shiver right down his spine. But after the morning meals, Sigyn no longer puts it on at all, instead hides it away and doesn't bring it out until she leaves for the midday meal-for it's true, she's taken to staying with him all morning, and he finds himself enjoying every second of her presence, greedily wanting more, wanting it to be more than just a healer attending to her patient.
He's always wanted more than he had, and now is no different.
And then suddenly, without reason, he notices. He notices how she takes it off, how she hides it, and how she resolutely does not go looking for it again once he's done eating. His silvertongue is free to do as it will, and he wonders what she's saying with this gesture. That she trusts him? Possibly. That she wants to talk more with him? Unlikely, given the general peaceful silence of their time spent together in the mornings. He feels like she's waiting for something, some major breakthrough that he's simply not giving her because he doesn't know what it is she wants.
She is frustratingly confusing and Loki loves it.
One day, he decides to bring up her lack of following the rules to perfection. He watches as she sets the muzzle away and leans back in his chair, his breakfast sitting comfortably in his stomach, his mood strangely content at how... simple this all is. Him, her, eating breakfast together and sharing in an easy if unsatisfying silence. He's grown used to it, he realizes with a shock, and a part of him wonders how long it'll be until this too is taken from him.
"So why is the healer suddenly disobeying her orders?"
Sigyn glances up at him in surprise, her hands hovering over the plates she had begun to clean up. "I beg pardon?"
He smirks and meets her gaze, lacing his fingers together and setting them in his lap. "I highly doubt you were given permission to leave off the muzzle after our morning meals."
She stares at him for a moment before returning to her work. "I wasn't," she says simply, and Loki wonders that he expected her to lie about it. "I simply find little use in muzzling you like a common dog."
That wasn't quite the answer he was wanting or hoping for, and Loki finds himself disappointed for a reason he can't put his finger on. What had he wanted her to say? That she kept it off so they could talk, when they obviously didn't all that much? That she wanted him to talk to her or-Norns forbid-kiss her, whisper in her ear and make her arch against him and-
Loki pulls his thoughts back to the present, away from the dreams he has about her.
"Do you intend to tell on me?" Sigyn asks, staring at him. "Or are you saying you want it back on?"
"No," Loki answers, too quickly. She nods and then picks up the trays and hands them out to a guard behind the door before closing it firmly.
"I won't tell if you won't," Sigyn says, and he stares at her before smiling a bit and oh, she's perfect.
"If this is to earn my good graces so I'll tell you what you want to know, it won't work." His words are heavy but his tone is light, and he hopes she understands his intent behind them-a light teasing, nothing more.
"I don't beg for good graces," Sigyn says, coming back over and sitting at the table. "And I won't try to earn that information. You'll either give it to me or you won't. What I do will little affect that."
Loki leans forward, towards her, and she watches him nonchalantly. "But the curiousity must be overwhelming now," he says, because she's just like him in this, in that insatiable need for knowledge and the eternal fascination things hold for them both and it's never enough, nothing can satisfy their curiousity, only calm it for a while. "How did one such as myself get that knowledge when we've never met, never spoken to each other, never saw each other before recently?"
Sigyn gives him a dry look and leans in, resting her arms on the table. "Perhaps it was a lucky guess on your part."
Loki laughs quietly and doesn't move away from her. "Or perhaps I found it through nefarious means and I intend to do ill with it."
Her gaze pierces him, brown eyes studying his face intently. Her expression is unreadable as ever, but there's a hint of something there, something in those warm eyes that makes his grin widen. "And whatever could you do with a healer such as myself?"
"All sorts of things," Loki says, his voice low, and he swears he sees a shiver run through her body at that.
Sigyn's silent before pulling away and straightening, smoothing out her golden skirt. "I don't think you will."
"Oh?"
"No," Sigyn says, and her voice is quiet but perfectly clear, each word said with clarity. "Perhaps I'll be proven wrong one day, but for now, I don't think you will."
Irritation flares up in him for a brief moment because how can she think of him like that, like some good man who won't use her all too willingly given trust for his own means? For is that not who he is, what he is, a monster who uses others for his own gains and then casts them aside or kills them? Can she not see just how dangerous a game she's playing, trusting him and being friendly to him and assuming they're on good terms when it could all so easily be a front on his end, intending to lure her in until she can no longer escape and then-
And then-
Then, with a shock, Loki realizes she does know this. She's not stupid. She's not naive. She's careful and he realizes that Sigyn's completely aware of the fact that he could be playing her, that her trust and friendship isn't some hope on her part that there's some goodness left in him to reach if only someone could show him some kindness.
She knows he could be using her and she shows kindness anyway. Loki can't decide if that makes her the stupidest person in the Nine or the most amazing woman he's ever met. And he realizes, with a sickness in his gut that rises to his throat and makes him swallow thickly, that if he hadn't known her-known what they could have had together, if he didn't desperately wish for that now, if he wasn't chasing after some vague hope that it could still happen-he would do just that.
He would use her and then cast her aside and he would feel no remorse about it whatsoever. He is not a kind man, never was, certainly isn't now, and even if he had noticed her intelligence beauty bravery kindness loyalty in the beginning, he would have used it to his own ends and never given her a second thought.
What else could ever be expected of him, after all, except to be the villain, the monster, the one who ensnares the innocent naive kind compassionate loving girl and utterly ruins her because he holds no love for anything, no one, nothing at all except perhaps himself but that's not true either, Loki holds no love for himself at all, especially not when the knowledge of what hides underneath his pale skin and green eyes haunts his nightmares.
Loki blinks, then pushes those thoughts away and focuses on her again, looking right into her eyes.
"And what do you hope to gain out of all of this, my lady?" Loki asks quietly. "Besides the knowledge of how I knew your name. Would you still have volunteered to be a companion to the traitor of Asgard, the murderer, the tyrant, had I not glanced at you that day in the corridor and met your gaze?"
"Yes," Sigyn says evenly, no hesitation but also no rush to say it. It's the truth. "I would have."
"And why is that?"
"Because it's my job, to help those who need me. Because it's what I do, occupation or not. As for what I hope to gain..." she shrugs and takes a sip of her water. "Just as you keep your secrets, I will keep mine."
He laughs. He can't help it, can't stop it, doesn't even realize he's going to until it happens. She's returning his play of keeping secrets by doing the same thing, knowing it would hook him in, knowing it would make her impossible to resist.
"And shall these secrets ever be revealed one day?"
Sigyn meets his gaze sharply. "That, Loki, is up to you."
He simply smirks and glances down to her lips and thinks, I could kiss her right now, but he doesn't, doesn't move, doesn't do anything except meet her gaze until he finally glances away.
"You are a confusing woman," he says, and his tone hints at admiration and-no, not love, he can't hint at that, not yet, because it can never happen. Never.
"And you are a man of mysteries," Sigyn says, and there's something about it that makes Loki think she's already figured out most of the mysteries, and the ones she hasn't yet, she purposefully hasn't tried to figure out, just to leave something to be fascinated by, and he should hate her and how easily she sees past him, but the only thing he can feel for her is love and admiration that, finally, there's someone worthy of his attention.
"So we're to remain confounded by each other," Loki says, taking a sip of his water, suddenly realizing how cracked and dry his lips are.
"I never said I was confounded by you," Sigyn says lightly. "Merely that you enjoy being mysterious," she pauses then, tilting her head to the side as she considers him. "No, not quite. You simply shut others out so effectively that it appears you're mysterious."
He stands up, suddenly, setting his water down and moving away from her to the windows. He hasn't glanced out of them in a while, not caring for the taste of freedom it gives him but the feast he's denied, and the thought that somewhere out there far outside of the Nine, a being who courts death is looking for him, lying in wait, and the thought sends a shudder down his spine.
He senses her come up behind him and, after a moment, she joins him at the window. "I'm sorry. I overstepped my boundaries." Her voice is quiet, apologetic, but... held back. And he's suddenly so very tired of this constant back and forth, how they begin to tease each other and almost get along, only for something to go wrong somewhere and causes the tension to return.
Loki turns to look at her, then decides he doesn't like his back being to the window and moves away, holding her gaze as he does so. "It's fine. By the same logic, I also overstepped my boundaries."
"One could argue there are none for you," Sigyn says, watching him. "You're still a prince, after all."
He laughs bitterly at that, turns away from her. "Is that what they say, out there?" he asks, motioning to the door. "Does the Allfather still call me his son? Does the Queen still consider me family in her heart? Does Thor think me a brother still, after everything?"
Sigyn stares at him, then glances down to the floor. "I wouldn't presume to say what they think," she says politely. "But given how they mourned for your death and how Thor came to take care of you, I would say yes."
He laughs quietly at her pretend at propriety and how she followed it up with saying what she thought. "Perhaps you saw wrong, then."
"I don't think so."
Loki falls silent, still turned away from her, a tension between his shoulders, hands clenching into fists. And where was that concern, I wonder, when Thor found me on Midgard? When he acted as if he cared more about the whereabouts of the Tesseract than seeing me for the first time in years a year no it was only a year but not for me not in that dark realm-
Loki turns to look at Sigyn, focusing on her, and keeps his expression as blank as he's able. "What did the Allfather tell the people of Asgard when I died?"
Sigyn seems taken aback by this question, blinking in surprise, then frowning. "He said you died protecting Asgard from the Jotnar, alongside your brother who had returned. You couldn't close the Bifrost because of what they'd done to Heimdall, so Thor was forced to destroy the Bridge, and..." she trails off, expecting him to know the rest, but then he's laughing because oh, Odin had tried to protect his honour, preserve it, and didn't wish to cast him as the villain this time, how sweet, how sickeningly sweet of the man he once called father. "Loki?"
He tries to stop his laughter but it's difficult, the idea so absurd to him, the fact that while he was drifting in space, unfortunately quite alive but not very well, Odin had still tried to prove himself a father to him and had cast his death in a good light and he wonders if Odin expects that to endear him to Loki now, after everything, because if he is then he is sorely mistaken.
"It's nothing," Loki says, managing to calm his laughter a tad. "Nothing at all, my dear."
Sigyn pauses and he realizes what he called her but he can't be bothered to apologize for it, instead waits to see how she'll react to it. She stares at him for a long moment before straightening and inclining her head. "As you say," she says, then goes over to the table where a stack of books waits. "Why don't you come and read, hm?"
Loki hesitates before going over, disappointment washing over him that she chose not to acknowledge his slip at all. He's staring at the titles of the books without really taking them in when Sigyn says, her voice quiet, "They all still love you, you know. Very much."
His hand trembles as he reaches for one book, and his fingers brush against Sigyn's briefly. She doesn't pull away but he knows, by the slight stiffening of her shoulders, that she felt it. "Do they, now?"
"Yes," Sigyn says, her gaze down at his hand. "They're your family."
What a peculiar way his family had of showing their love, then. Odin, who had never seemed interested in his youngest son's magical ability or scholarly pursuits, who seemed to prefer the golden child over the dark one, who watched as Thor threw him in the abyss as he let go because no, Loki because death was far more preferable to anything else was the only outcome he wanted then.
Frigga, who had always given him her utter love and adoration and who he'd always thought favoured him over Thor, but had still allowed Odin to lie to him about everything, everything, and knew the entire time and-and truly, he can't work up that much hate for her, because despite everything she still loved him as her own but she still allowed the lie to continue but he can't hate her. Not her. Not his mother. But that doesn't mean he forgives her, either.
And Thor... Loki closes his eyes briefly at the thought of his older brother, the shadow, the standard to which he and others had always measured him against and the standard to which he'd always fallen so terribly short of. The one he despises and loves all at once but that love no longer matters now, does it, not after everything, not after he tried to kill Thor, not after Thor threw him off the Bifrost into the abyss, and-
-Is this love, Agent Romanoff?-
If that was love, Loki decides, he's far better off without it. He would take fear and respect over love, because at least if someone fears you, they will not hurt you in such a manner as the ones who supposedly loved him did.
Except-
Loki looks at Sigyn, truly looks at her, the freckles scattered across her nose, the black hair pulled back so severely from her face, the warmth of her brown eyes and her soft olive hued skin, the calm that surrounds her, the glint of intelligence in her eyes and the mouth that gives him such kind smiles all the time. He looks at the one who he cannot see ever hurting him and he thinks no, this is love, this is what it means to be loved and love in return, to have someone care for you, and whatever his family tries to pass off as love is a simple mockery of the word.
There is the thought that of course he still loves his family, how can he not, even after everything-but Loki firmly puts that fact into a part of his mind and locks it away, never to be thought of again. He cannot love them. Especially now. And whatever they felt for him no longer matters.
Love was such a useless sentiment, and Loki somewhat despises himself for falling prey to it, for falling for Sigyn as much as he has, for desperately craving it for so much of his life and still wanting it even now. But then the hate fades because to hate what he's fallen into is to hate Sigyn, and he cannot hate her.
"I have no family," Loki says lowly, and Sigyn looks up at him and he realizes how close they're standing, but he doesn't move away and neither does she.
"You do," Sigyn says, "and you always will. Whether or not you wish to acknowledge them as such doesn't change their ties to you." She looks away, her expression sad for a moment. "No matter how much you may want it to."
Before he can think on this long, the door to his chamber opens and Sigyn immediately turns away from him to face the person coming in. Loki clenches his fists and glares at the guard standing in the doorway.
"You're needed elsewhere, my lady," the guard says simply. He glances between the two of them, uncertainty crossing his face.
"Thank you," Sigyn says with a nod. "You may leave. There's something I must finish here before I go."
The guard hesitates before stepping away and letting the door close. Sigyn sighs, shoulders drooping slightly, before going over to where she'd hid the muzzle.
"I'm sorry for this," she says as she approaches him, muzzle in hand, and Loki simply sits down and stares at her.
"Until next time, my dear," Loki says quietly, and Sigyn pauses just briefly before sliding the muzzle into place and locking it together. The metal cuts into his skin as always, cold and hard, and Sigyn's warm hand lingers on his cheek before she pulls away.
"Until later, Loki," she says, and she says it like a promise, and then she's gone, out the door and leaving him to the quiet of his prison yet again and he loves her. He loves her.
What a useless sentiment. Especially now that he's marked for death.