981: Asgard, City Limits
The early morning air is still chilled as they set out from the city, but the clear blue sky promises a warm day. The first few leaves have sprouted along the boughs of the trees that stretch above them, little points of colour marking the new buds of flowers scattered along the ground and up through the branches.
Sigyn's distracted, her expression distant and troubled when he catches her in thought, but she smiles at him whenever she notices him watching. She's certainly been happier recently than she had been a year ago, but he still sees it, imagines he will for a long time— they heavy sorrow that still weighs on her heart and keep her up at night, especially as this day's drawn closer, and a tangible melancholy hanging over her now.
Still, he can't help but smile. There's something so satisfying about seeing her this way again: a worn tunic thrown over trousers, her own flower-bright yellow and brown like fresh-turned soil, her bow slung over her shoulder as she picks her way along the steep mountain path beside him— a wrong finally set right.
"I'm allowed out until dinner," she tells him, eyeing him curiously as he leads her to a thin deer track worn through the underbrush, veering away from the beaten path, "I promised I'd be back by then."
He smiles, and nods, but never explicitly agrees to anything. "It'll be fine," he assures her instead.
"I promised," she repeats, shoulders pulling together slightly, sighing. They stop at the foot of a steep hill, its near vertical surface a few minutes' climb— Loki has faster ways available, and it's put the thought in his head, but he scrambles up it as an Ás to keep pace with her. She turns to him again, worry in her voice once they've crested the top, brushing fallen pine needles from her clothes before wringing her braid in her hands. "Fimafeng says if I displease him again he's going to send me to a farm in the Plains of Ida," she tells him, voice low like a confession.
She's missed a few stray needles, and he sweeps some from her farther shoulder, leaves his hand there as he studies her worried expression, feels the tension creeping into her posture at the thought. "You might like it, though," he says, teasing lightly, "run around playing with animals, wear trousers, get straw in your hair." He flicks a last brown needle from her copper locks, surprised at how emphatically she shakes her head.
"I don't like farms," she insists. "I mean, I understand the necessity, but I find them unsettling. The whole… livestock thing." He raises an eyebrow, looks from her to her bow and back again.
She shrugs, and he watches her contemplative expression as she tries to wrangle the thought into words. "The rabbits and the ducks and the deer know to run from me," she says finally, looking up at him, hoping she's making sense. "It's fair. There's something about feeding something, and caring for it, and protecting it and all the while just waiting to—" she breaks off, shakes her head, nearly shudders, and he responds with a soft laugh, eyebrows knitting together.
"I don't think cows spend much of their time contemplating betrayal." He leaves the hand on her shoulder for a moment longer. She leans into him, and he smiles, presses his reply right to the shell of her ear. "You've friends in high places, Sige, and nothing to fear from that overstuffed hobgoblin," he snickers disdainfully. "As if I'd ever let him send you away."
He's thrumming with excitement, his heart hammering in his chest, magic prickling eagerly beneath his skin, and keeps shifting as they make their way along to burn off that restless energy. He leads her as a black cat, as a snake, flutters and hops along as a magpie. He turns into a salmon just to make her laugh, flopping uselessly in the path for a moment before springing back to his feet as a silver fox—he's been finding he likes the feel of that one more and more, recently.
Eventually, Loki wants to talk again, and it's only from the way her clothes sit that she realizes she's reverted as an ásynja. "Maybe I should just stay like this. Then I could honestly say I'm Odin's favourite daughter," she laughs as she says it, but she hears it comes out pained, "except he hates it when I do this."
Sigyn's eyebrows pull together in soft concern, her hand resting reassuringly up on Loki's still-taller shoulder. "Probably just dreads raising a teenage girl," she says finally, joking but cautious, watching Loki's reaction carefully, "I'm told we're quite challenging."
"Oh please. I'd take raising you and Sif over Thor and me, easily. Ooh, I know," she shifts her tone, grinning away the slip of vulnerability. Today is supposed to be fun. "I should come to your secret girl meetings."
"They're not secret," Sigyn replies with a gentle laugh. "All we do is sharpen swords and braid hair."
"Ah," she shakes her head, runs her fingers through her dark hair, carefully swept back and reaching, just barely, to her jaw. Loki keeps it short, it gets unruly otherwise— she supposes she could just be herself with more cooperative locks, but… that wouldn't really be herself, anymore. "Damn." Her clothes are too tight in some places and loose in others, so she shifts back.
Loki glances down at Sigyn, frowning slightly as he considers something that's been weighting on him all year. "Sige, why don't you just live with Sif?"
Her expression grows sad, again, her gaze falling back to the trail beneath her feet. They didn't offer, she doesn't say. "Sif's parents barely have time for her as it is, I wouldn't want…" she trails off. They tolerate Sif's unconventional interests— that doesn't mean they were overly fond of the woman who encouraged them. Not nearly enough to assume responsibility for her daughter.
He can't imagine Sif not trying. He certainly had, but Odin had been firm: the royal family can't take in every orphan in Asgard; to favour one would be unfair. Oh yes, of course. Norns forbid life ever be unfair, as if it weren't already a great immutable fact of the universe. One way or another, he's getting her out of that damned kitchen if it's the last—
Sigyn's voice snaps Loki from his bitter reverie. "Besides," she smiles weakly, "in a few years I'd be looking for a job, desperate for one as good as I have now."
"Sigyn, your job is terrible," he tells her, eyebrows furrowing. "I've seen how you're treated, and it makes my blood boil. I think I could last all of five minutes being spoken to that way before I stabbed someone."
"I'm not a thrall," she insists, "I could leave if I wanted— but I'd have to find some family to take me in, or burden a home for children like me, or…" she makes a face. "Or that farm. And I'd be far away from all of you," Sigyn reaches down and twines her fingers through his. "I don't want to be away from you."
The route gets more difficult as they continue. The forest thins and dwindle to nothing, the tall expanse of trees giving way to a few isolated sentinels that grow scraggly and wilted, struggling in the thin soil. The ground beneath their feet grows hard and as they approach the sound of crashing waves, the land around them nothing but jagged peaks of barren rock as they spiral higher. "Where are we going?" She asks, not for the first time, not suspicious, but growing more concerned as they near the farthest reaches of the mountains towards the edge of the realm. The city's visible in the distance, the Rainbow Bridge stretching out towards the mists that mark the drop.
"You'll see," he assures her, near giddy with excitement, "almost there, I promise— oh!" He pauses, eyes wide for a moment as a thought strikes him, and Loki lets out a slow breath as he reaches for his magic. She must feel it settle over her because Sigyn jumps a little, looks down to study her hands like she's trying to see it. "We're hidden,' he tells her, indicates the little dot of the Observatory far on the horizon, "from anyone who happened to be looking."
He leads her down a narrow ledge of rock along a canyon between two peaks, the sheltered water far, far below lapping calmly against the sides.
He stops abruptly, turning to face her. "Sige," he begins, with an eager intensity in his eyes, "what I'm about to show you must stay between us— I need you to swear to me you won't breathe a word of it to anyone."
He asks this of her often, but he means it this time, and she's caught off guard by his fervor. "Yes," she agrees, blinking at him. "I swear it."
"On the Tree itself, Sige. On everything you hold dear."
"Yes," she repeats, a laugh lilting her voice this time, Loki's grin growing as she continues. "I swear it on my honour, on everything I've ever loved," a devious, satisfied twinkle lights her eyes, "else let Nidhogg devour me as an Oathbreaker."
"Now, Sige," he chuckles, "nothing's worth that," but she stares back at him, undaunted, a playful challenge. Sigyn takes her promises very seriously, and he has no doubt that his secrets are safe.
"Ta-da!" he singsongs as he turns, a sweeping gesture indicating the expanse of nothing behind them and she's left bewildered, looking around for whatever he's brought her looking for. It's not until she turns to him like she's given up, begging to be let in on the joke that he relents. He smiles, and from behind, wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on her shoulder. "There," he says, pointing down towards the dark water. "Do you see it?"
She moves to lean over then freezes, glances back at him poised behind her, brows furrowed. "Are… are you going to push me in?"
"What?" He gapes at her for a moment, can only laugh incredulously. "Sigyn, when have I ever done anything like that— letmefinish— to you."
She looks ashamed of herself for doubting him, which, were she anyone else, would have been a wise observation, and her gaze drops to her boots as she sends a little pebble rolling over the precipice. "It's just… Some of the things Sif has told me recently…"
"Ah." It's been nothing terrible, nothing he wouldn't want getting back to her, but… with Sigyn absent, he's been entertaining himself, and his own sense of humor isn't quit as innocent. "Obviously I need you to reign me in," he shrugs, smiles at her when she raises her eyes again. "I'm on my best behaviour today; that's my oath to you."
She does lean over the edge to look down, exclaims softly when she notices it: a hole in the ocean. It's a tear a few meters across, a slash of brighter blue through the deep green of the cove's shaded waters, a bright light beckoning from the depths. "What is it?"
"The sun," he answers, fingers drumming excitedly against her shoulders, "somewhere else's sun. The realm gets a little fuzzy around the edges. It's like a… passageway," he continues gleefully, as she stares at the rift in wonder. "Imagine some great burrowing creature gnawed a hole through Yggdrasil."
"Where does it lead?"
"That's the surprise! I did warn you we were going swimming— Shit," he hisses as a thought strikes him cold, "you aren't afraid of heights, are you? Not after—"
"No, no I'm fine, but… Wait…" her distracted assurances trail off, her brows furrowing. She whirls around to face him, eyes wide as the implication sinks in. "You can't mean—!" She'd thought he'd brought her out her merely to observe the curiosity. Well, he's done letting her experience things second hand— relaying adventures to her after the fact, bringing her back crumpled flowers and feathers, pebbles and shells, coins and beads and anything else he can squirrel away in his pockets.
She says it's enough for her; it shouldn't be.
"I do mean," he insists, a heated certainty lighting his eyes that grows sly as he continues. "Of course, if I'm wrong, every atom of our beings will be scattered across the Nine— I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" he interrupts himself at the look on her face, the panic in her eyes as she grabs hold of him to push him back from the edge. "Sigyn, I tested it," he eases, laughing gently. "It's safe. Do you think I'd ever put you in danger? Strike that— have you ever known me to put myself in harm's way?" That does seem to reassure her, the dismay giving way to a familiar hesitant curiosity.
"We can turn back now, if you want to," he says as he moves to face her fully. Her attention darts back the way they came for a moment, but return to him and stays there, her eyes on his, warm and wide, a fragile hope lit in his heart. "Sigyn," he breathes, "trust me." And she does— he sees it reflected there, surprised at how dearly he needed it, the certainty that solidifies in her expression. Sigyn nods, swallows hard, and meets his smile with her own, breathless and giddy and the happiest kind of anxious.
A flicker of magic sends her things, bow and bag, away to the same pocket of space where he's safely stowed his own. He takes her hand, her warm fingers winding easily between his, and he leads her back with him, a few long strides taking him as far away from the edge as he can get, backed against a wall of rock. "On three?"
"One," she begins, steadying herself, eyes fixed at the empty air beyond the drop, "two," she glances at him, one last time, and then they're running, leaping, falling: down, down, down. They hit the waves but their descent doesn't slow, still tumbling, plummeting, the water suddenly colder, clearer, the bubbles rushing up past their feet.
Loki breaches the waves with a gasp that breaks into a triumphant cackle as she surfaces beside him, sputtering, shaking her sodden hair, freed by the fall, from her face to take in the unfamiliar surroundings.
It's beautiful— the sun shining bright through thin clouds in a grey sky, the rift bringing them to the sheltered recess of a fjord, tree covered mountains stretching up around them. It's colder here, ice still clinging to the shoreline and reaching outwards, loose chunks bobbing in the water. Frost gathers on the first few buds and patches of grass that have ventured up, stirred by a cool breeze that races through the channel. Loki throws his arms wide, jubilant, tipping to float on his back, crows, "welcome to Midgard!"
They paddle to shore, and it's clear that something is wrong the moment they pull themselves from the water. Sigyn doesn't stand; she crawls, dragging herself onto the pebbled shore and curling into a trembling ball. "Sige?" he drops to his knees beside her and helps her farther up the rocky slope, panic settling in his gut as he tries to gather her in his arms, rigid, shaking. He's seen her in pain, before, and for a horrible moment he thinks that's what this is, that she'd been harmed somehow by the journey.
She's pale when she looks up at him, lips tinted an alarming shade of blue. The wet curls of her hair have already begun to freeze as he helps her to her feet. It's... chilly, certainly, Loki's wet clothes clinging unpleasantly to his skin, and he can see his breath if he exhales very deliberately, but he's otherwise fine, and studies her in bewildered alarm.
"This way," he says as he hurries her out of the open, towards the shelter of a cluster of fir trees. She stops suddenly, takes one of his hands between hers— still shivering violently— and it's her turn to look at him in horror as her other hand rests against his cheek
"Loki, you're freezing," she says, panic setting into her voice, "you're colder than I am—"
"I'm fine," he comforts, with an eyebrow raised and a confused burst of nervous laughter. "Mother always says I run cool… Thor says I'm cold-blooded. I'm sorry, Sige, I wasn't expecting… Here," he draws her pack from its hiding place between worlds, presses it into her hands. Sigyn scurries to a more secluded patch of low juniper trees, her dry clothes clutched to her chest, and Loki sets to shedding his own wet garments.
He's a gentleman, so he averts his gaze— but he's also the god of mischief, so he peeks.
He dares a quick sidelong glance over his shoulder— to make sure she's alright, of course— and all he sees through the lush green boughs is the vague impression of her hair down her back, dark with water, and the corner of her eye as her own gaze wanders, for just that same instant, towards him.
They've caught one another; from both their hiding places comes a mutual, bashful giggle.
She emerges, wringing out her hair before tying it back, and Loki frowns at her choice of attire. She looks down at the brown dress sheepishly, smoothing the front and shrugging. "This way I can start as soon as we get back."
She's less huddled by the cold, but her colour is still worrying, arms wrapped around herself, dressed for Asgard's gentle spring, not the last dregs of bitter Midgardian winter. Loki shrugs his coat off, and lays it over her shoulders, waving off her protests about his own warmth. She concedes, wiggling her arms into the sleeves. He doesn't give off much heat, but she's welcome to it.
"I didn't plan it this way," Loki insists as he pulls her against him, "but I'm certainly not complaining. Summer, next time," he promises her as they start along a road winding through the hills.
"Next time?" She asks, amber eyes so beautifully hopeful, chasing away the horrible guilt gnawing at him at the trip's disastrous beginning, and she beams when he nods. Something stirs in his chest, flutters in his stomach at the sight of her, a flicker of that same possessive longing.
Norns, but she looks good in his colours.
It could be better.
He grins again as an idea strikes him, and he feels her jump as another light sweep of his magic ripples along the lines of her dress, the colour shifting, dull brown to her cheery yellow. She's always fascinated by his magic, and he adores how she marvels at it. "I can change it back, if you really need me to," he says with a theatrical sigh, "when it's time to go home."
"How are we going to get back? I didn't see the gateway once we were through it."
"Heimdall," Loki replies blithely as they crest a hill, the smoke rising from chimneys of the nearby settlement now visible, drifting upwards into the clouds. "He wouldn't let us out, but he has to take us back. You know," he shrugs, "better to beg forgiveness than ask permission."
She's tense and trembling beneath his hands, teeth still chattering, breath visible in shuddering wisps, but her apprehension is forgotten at the sight of the village down below, nestled alongside another of those narrow channels out to sea. It's familiar to him, and he's mentioned it to her without any trouble, but now that they're actually here, he's beginning to worry. "So," he begins as casually as he's able, "this is Tønsberg."
He collides with her when she stops dead in the path, turning back to look at the village in this new light— past the homes and streets to the fields that stretch out beyond them. She lets him pull her in closer, trying to shelter her from the wind and keep her warm as she pauses there, transfixed, looking over the valley below as if she could trace the scars left by the battle fought here sixteen years earlier. He remembers sneaking her down into the vault all those years ago. It's the same wistful kind of disquiet in her eyes now, a bittersweet wonder, a curiosity. "So," she inclines her head, hums thoughtfully, "the hole in Yggdrasil just happened to lead to the same place the Frost Giants invaded?"
The coincidence had been weighing on him already. "There must be some kind of… draw, to this place," he concludes. "Something here, tugging at things, pulling at space… There are places like that, where things are stronger. Along ley lines, the Norn pools…" Loki shrugs, and they're soon nearing the little settlement.
"There are a few other things I should probably warn you about," he says as they make their way along. "They're... well, they're a great deal of fun, but the mortals are terribly primitive. Father's insistent we not interfere, let them lead their short little lives as they will," he rolls his eyes, but she's listening intently. Sigyn's expression is concerned as he outlines the limits of their narrow comprehension: wanting in science, bereft of magic, afraid of things they don't understand and understanding so precious little. "Don't worry; just enjoy yourself," he whispers, smiling against the shell of her ear as they reach the outskirts of the town.
The villagers, all still dressed for winter cold, stop at the sight of them, pausing mid-task, or hurrying away to alert their chieftain to their sudden presence. Little ones gather in the thresholds of their houses and cluster together in the street, waving back excitedly when he acknowledges them. It's the children here who like him best— they haven't yet learned fear and suspicion, still react to his magic with delight.
There's a goat wandering loose in the streets—someone's pet by the beads and ribbons draped around its neck— and it follows them for a time, butting up against him like it thinks he has food and bleating stubbornly when he tries to shoo it away. Loki takes his eyes off it for a second when he stops to direct Sigyn along a turn, and it rams him from behind with its short horns, sending him stumbling. It stares back impassively with its uncanny square pupils when he glares at it.
The village leader is waiting when they reach the mead hall at the center of town, with a few others Loki imagines must be important— warriors, advisors, his sons. He's caught them off guard; usually the roar and radiance of the bifrost announces arrivals from Asgard, and the chieftain is visibly flustered.
"Jarl Harvaldr," he greets as the human nervously takes a knee, the assembled onlookers following suit.
"Your Highness," the jarl, an older man with greying blond hair and a short beard, speaks towards the snowy cobblestones, before carefully glancing upwards, and rising back to his feet when Loki motions to allow it. "We were not expecting you back so soon— the seeress did not predict your coming—"
"Oh good. I would so hate to be predictable."
"To what do we owe the honour? Do you travel alone," he continues hopefully, "or will your brother and his companions be joining us?"
Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes, smile tight. "No. No, Thor isn't here today. Just me, and—" he furrows his brow when he turns to find no one there. Sigyn's migrated from his side to wait timidly behind him, "and my little shadow, apparently. Sigyn, darling, come out from behind me," he encourages, leading her by the hand to stand beside him again. He drapes an arm over her shoulder the other resting at her waist. "This is Lady Sigyn of Asgard," he tells them proudly, their expressions softening at the sight of her. "I hope you show her the same hospitality you've afforded us in the past," his smile not faltering as his grip on Sigyn tightens, keeping her upright when he feels her reflexively move to bow. "I'd ask for a place by your fire, so she might warm herself?" The request is a courtesy— they'd be mad to refuse him— but he promised Sigyn his best manners, and they're happy enough to oblige.
The mead hall is a single open room, like a humble facsimile of Asgard's Great Hall. A high table sits across from the entrance, other benches and tables pushed along the sides, a great central hearth between them. The jarl's men pull a bench towards the hearth and offer the seat to Sigyn, who takes it gratefully, leaning even closer to the roaring fire, so close the flames almost lick her palms. She sighs in relief, unfurling in the heat, and her head tips back to soak in the blissful warmth, beads of water from her frozen curls running down her neck. Loki leaves her there to thaw, promising he'll be back in a moment as he has something to discuss with Harvaldr.
He's half paying attention as the jarl anxiously addresses him. A group of children is playing at one of the tables, and woman who he seems to remember as the chieftain's wife speaks with them briefly. One of the children, a girl with her same chestnut hair, hurries from the room and returns later with a soft cloth. She creeps closer to offer it to Sigyn, who beams at her gently as she takes it, sets to drying herself. They exchange words he can't hear, but the girl keeps her distance like she's afraid Sigyn will bite and scurries away at the first opportunity, hastening back to her group.
The children are so engrossed in the unfamiliar Asgardian at the center of the room that they don't notice when Loki quietly excuses himself from the jarl and creeps into a place beside them at the table. He can't resist.
"So? She is one of those things, isn't she? Look, she's melting," a boy whispers when she rejoins them.
The little girl rolls her eyes at him. "Don't be stupid. Frost giants are huge and blue," she hisses back. "Her hair's just wet. She says they came from the sea."
"You've never seen one," the boy replies indignantly. "She looked a little blue…"
"That's cold, idiot. If she were a Frost Giant she wouldn't be cold."
"Forget cold," adds another girl, a little older, in hushed terror, "if she was in the water she should be dead."
"And if either of us were mortal, we surely would be." The group of children startle at his voice and whirl around to find Loki grinning. "She's an ásynja, I assure you, just like Sif— they're the very best of friends, in fact." They know Sif, and they know him. "I think she'd like that very much," he enthuses when they ask if they should speak to her, and the children hurry over. She scoots the bench a safe distance back from the fire before inviting them to sit.
He joins in after a time, and they're after him at once, pleading for him to show them magic. Other village folk have filtered in and the room is buzzing, more children piling around as he, with a great show of theatrical reluctance, agrees to demonstrate, and takes on the appearance of one of the gathered children, then their jarl, then a snake, a cat… Himself again, they gasp and giggle as he entertains them with small illusions: birds flap overhead and fireflies twinkle between the sparks that crackle off the fire. He creates the image of an emerald butterfly, which flutters to light on Sigyn's forehead, and she applauds along with them.
Eventually Harvaldr calls for everyone's attention and leads the throng of villagers from the Mead Hall. By then, Sigyn's hair is dry, the warmth returned to her colouring.
"There is just… one tiny little bit of unpleasantness to get out of the way," he says as she looks to him for an explanation, wraps his coat around herself tighter as they step outside, join in the group as it makes its way up a steep hill, towards a clearing in the forest at the edge of town. "It seems terribly important to them. So, our earlier conversation noted, ah… just keep in mind: they were going to eat the cow anyway…"
Sigyn blinks at him in confusion as they approach the grove of trees, wide eyes flitting to him uncomfortably when she notices the bull being led along with them, and the altar waiting in the grove.
"I talked them down from a horse," he tells her contritely, voice low to keep the nearby mortals from overhearing. "Honestly I tried to get them to use that blasted goat, but they've already dedicated it to Thor, because of course they have" he rolls his eyes. "Probably just patted it once. I swear, Thor sneezes on something here, they make it a holy relic."
Unfortunately, they're given a place at the front of the crowd as Loki gives his blessing (Sigyn manages a weak smile) and the jarl begins the ceremony, offering up prayers to Odin. "They think this will please my father," he explains under his breath. "Poor bastards. Nothing pleases my father."
"Cows?" she whispers back, their heads bowed together discreetly.
"Cows, horses… other… things…" he shrugs, not wanting to elaborate and upset her. "They sacrifice pigs and boars to my mother."
He feels her sway a little, next to him, and her next whisper is playful. "The boars aren't for your grandfather?"
Loki supresses a laugh. "Careful, or you're going to be the goddess of puns."
"I can live with th—"
Harvaldr takes a bowl from the altar in one hand, dagger in the other, and—
Sigyn's grip on him tightens, and a glance down finds her looking away just enough to avoid the worst of it, leaning into the crook of his neck as he watches, unflinching. She'll want nothing more right now than to put an arrow through its skull and end it. They're doing their best, but the mortals are weak and the bull is powerfully built.
"It's over," he whispers to her when the beast has finally stilled, its lifeblood collected in the bowl. Loki snorts suddenly, stifling a startled, horrified laugh as she looks up just in time to get splashed across the face with a spray of the blood flecked from a fir twig to bless the altar and gathered revelers. "You've… got a little something there," he replies, chuckling more freely when her response is a smile of her own, stunned, mortified, nothing to do about it but laugh. "Here," he says, raising her own wrist to her face, "use my sleeve. They consider it good luck. Feeling alright?" he asks when she's managed to wipe the blood away, "warm enough?" she nods to both, a little shaken but otherwise she seems to be handling things decently. "Perfect!"
The assembled crowd has begun to disperse, so he needs to act quickly. Loki steps into the center of the clearing, immediately catching the villagers' attention. "While I have all of you here," he begins, grinning. "On my last visit, I heard a great deal about the prowess of one of your number. Allegedly," he begins, prowling before the assembled mortals, "Tønsberg is home to the greatest archer mankind has. Which of you is Egil?" There's an excited ripple through the crowd, and a tall man with brown hair and simple clothing steps forward. "Excellent! Do you feel up to defending that title?" Egil exchanges a look with the men to either side of him, looks Loki up and down, and nods resolutely.
"You're challenging one of the mortals to an archery contest?" Sigyn smiles, bemused, as she comes up to him in the clearing.
"Of course not," Loki's positively giddy as he pulls Sigyn's bow and quiver from their hiding place, and offers them back to her, "you are!"
"Loki, I couldn't, I…" she takes them back from him and slings them back over her shoulder to bury her face in her hands, the current of eager villagers already drifting back towards the town proper, carrying them with it.
"You'll win," he assures her, eyes alight with impish joy, "and even if you don't, it's like embarrassing yourself in front of an anthill. Nothing matters, here! They know Thor calls the storms," he says quietly, as she peeks back at him through her fingers. "They know I have my spells and my games, Sif is a keen hand with any bladed weapon… I want them to know you, too." Her eyes meet his, drink in the certainty she finds there, and she seems touched by it— sees how dearly he wants her to belong, to fold her back into their number.
"Just for fun," she says finally, with a hesitant smile.
Eigl gives her a polite bow as they string their bows, a village boy that's likely his son fetching his for him at a sprint. Loki doesn't stop her from returning it; it's sportsmanlike here, not subservient. He's filled with a kind of steady certainty, only regarding Sigyn, who barely comes up to his shoulder, and her little hunting bow, curiously. There are targets, marked bales of hay, set up near the edge of town for practicing, and he draws his yew longbow, strikes the farthest of them dead-center.
Sigyn considers it for a moment, draws one of her homemade favourites from her quiver, and shoots. Her arrow nestles next to Egil's, as close as she could possibly get without damaging it. The crowd murmurs excitedly, and a slow smile begins to spread across the human archer's face. He backs up a considerable distance, and does the same again, his arrow landing a scant distance above his first in the smallest ring. She backs up beside him, nestles another arrow just beside his, and Egil's bemused little half-smile becomes full-blown enjoyment as he looks down at the little Asgardian matching him shot for shot. She smiles back, bouncing playfully in place, Loki's heart skipping as he watches her grow bolder.
They continue this way, Egil making a more difficult shot and Sigyn replicating it, both soon tiring of the targets. They shoot at distant signposts and knots on wooden panels, Egil hits a tree on the far side of the Fjord and Sigyn knocks a pinecone from the same. There's an older man (of some importance, by his fine clothing) contemplating an apple that must have been traded from somewhere warmer. With a wry glint in his eye, Egil bids him freeze, poised to take a bite, and the crowd erupts in another burst of gleeful laughter as Egil sends an arrow straight through the apple, then turns to Sigyn expectantly. She balks at that, not willing to shoot anywhere near someone, but she doesn't want the game to end, either.
Loki suggests tossing it into the air, and Sigyn perks up instantly. He sends it sailing upwards, Egil's arrow still through it, and as it hangs there for an instant before gravity pulls it back down, Sigyn looses one of the goose-feather arrows he'd given her, and strikes it easily— the apple, however, does not survive the blow. Sticky chunks of apple rain down onto the crowd, and Sigyn watches, mortified, as her arrow sails through the air, and buries itself deep into a great upright stone at the edge of town, spider web cracks radiating out from the point of impact.
The stunned silence is broken only by Loki cackling, and Egil joins him, a hearty chuckle from deep in his chest as he scratches at his beard, thoroughly impressed and blinking in astonishment at this tiny ásynja's impossible might. She relaxes as the crowd erupts into a final burst of whoops and cheers, and Sigyn turns to him, beaming, laughing, and he feels a familiar warmth through his chest.
Egil admits the contest good and done, just as the chieftain announces that the blót feast bull will be ready shortly, and most of the villagers return to the mead Hall, leaving Loki a moment alone with her as she wanders to recovering her spent arrows.
"Having fun?" he asks hopefully, and she nods, still a little shyly. Sigyn's used to forest trails and scurrying around the palace unnoticed, this is a lot for her, but to his delight she slowly seems to be adjusting to the attention. "Sorry," he says, trying to smooth down his hair. "I'm trying to make up for a year's worth of visits all at once. It'll be less overwhelming when we're all here together; they generally focus on my brother."
She smiles at him, gratefully, as she yanks the last of her recoverable arrows from a particular knot on a shed door, but reminds him that it's not permitted.
"Sige, if you were to come back to training, they have to let you," he insists as they start towards the bounder that had caught her last shot. That stupid goat is following them again. "I can see it in your eyes when you watch us, you want to come back. We miss you— Sif misses you; you should hear her cursing you when we're all off together: damn her for leaving me with these idiot boys."
She lets out a soft huff of laughter, looks up at him meaningfully. "We both know I was as bad as Thor and worse than Fandral." He's not sure how conscious a motion it is when her hand trails down her thigh, squeezes at what was once her bad leg.
"Alright, fine, then you fit right in," he coaxes, but her expression is conflicted.
She gasps, hands covering her mouth as they reach the runestone, a few curious villagers observing them. "I just thought it was a boulder, I didn't realize it... oh no." It's a monument, carved and painted, runes proclaiming it a memorial to those who fell in the battle against the Frost Giants. It depicts a scene: a crude portrayal of an army of warriors facing down a rival line of much larger creatures, their features sharp and twisted, stained blue— the center most figure, depicted as the largest and most terrible, a square object clutched to his chest, now has an arrow sticking out of his face.
Another startled laugh bubbles from Loki's throat. "I think it's much improved!"
Sigyn isn't laughing. She steps closer, spellbound, her hand reaching out to gently trace the stone where it depicts the Asgardian vanguard. She focuses on one, beside what must be Odin— too vague to be recognizable, but the figure charges forward, spear raised. He looks lithe, armor light, hopelessly outsized by his foes.
"Do you think they're really that big?" she asks without looking away, retreating farther into his coat.
Something clicks into place, and Loki's heart sinks, eyebrows knitting as he rests a hand on her shoulder. "Sige, it's okay if you're scared. Anyone with any sense would be."
"I'll never be the warrior he was, that my mother was," she answers quietly, "That Sif is—"
"Then don't be," he turns her to face him, hands braced against her upper arms, and she has no choice but to look up at him. "Don't be," he repeats softly, moving one hand to lift her chin, nudges her gently to guide her eyes to the bow. "Be you."
"Loki, it's not a weapon, it's… it's for sport and catching dinner. Am I to mildly annoy the monsters while the rest of you actually fight them?"
"The way you do it, though… I'd love to see any creature ignore one of these through their eye," he gestures back to the arrow buried deep into the rock. He twists his hand, and one of his sleek throwing knives appears between his thumb and forefinger. "We can't all be heavy-hitters. I manage just fine." Her breath wavers, teeth sunk into her lip, and Loki leans in closer, keeps his eyes on hers. "Sige," he says so achingly softly, the knife waved away as his hand comes to cradle her head, resting against her neck, "your mother was an incredible warrior, but she was alone. I swear to you— on anything, on everything— I will never leave you to face something like that on your own."
There are tears welling in her eyes as she finally gives voice to the quiet dread that's been living in her heart all year, that's kept her out of the ring. "Loki," she whispers, "if I get in the way, if I make a mistake… what if it's not me who gets hurt?"
"Same principle. We'll all be together," his thumb brushes down her cheek, sweeps a tear away when it drips from her copper lashes, "so long as you don't wander off without us." She smiles at him, still afraid to speak lest it come out as sobbing, but she nods. "You'll consider it?" The smile grows brighter, and she nods again.
They haven't had much time in person since Midwinter, and never by themselves. He has her here, warm, and solid, and real— alone together for the first time in a very, very long time, and he's not anxious to let go. There's been a kind of tension since then, an unspoken understanding that their attraction is more than just friendly. She leans into his touch, hands resting against his chest, and he finds them drifting closer to one another. Her lips are flushed pink again, warm. Loki swallows hard, and leans in, his heart pounding as Sigyn's eyes flutter shut—
There's a sharp pain in his thigh, and he jerks away with a startled cry.
The goat has a mouthful of his clothing, catching his tunic and trousers where he must have been splashed with apple pieces. "No! No," he commands, the goat ignoring him as he tries to shove it away, suddenly aware of the villagers that stop to watch. He wrenches his shirt free, but the goat has a firm hold of his pants. One hands tries to pull his trousers free while the other curls around the goat's horns to try and push it away, careful not to either harm the goat or tear his clothing as he fights this inane tug of war. He finally wrenches himself free, toppling backwards into Sigyn, and they crash to the snowy ground.
"Are— are you— alright?" she says, gasping. When he props himself up he finds her doubled over, laughing so hard she can barely breathe, tears streaming down her face. It's a beautiful sound, punctuated by the occasional undignified snort, and it's been a very long time since he's heard it. Loki feels a crooked grin creep across his face as he watches her and they both clamber back to their feet. There's a sizeable hole, thankfully to the outside of the thigh of his trousers, but it seems like a small price to pay.
"Maybe you're not so bad," he tells the goat, patting it between its curved horns. "I'm glad you're not dinner."
She apologizes as she lapses back into giggles as they start back towards the Mead hall, but he assures her it's alright, and holds the hole closed, a thought and a tiny glimmer of his magic more or less mending it. The seam is visible, but it holds.
"I do want to come with you," she admits, fiddling with a button on his coat as they walk. "I don't know about battle, but I just… I want to help people; I want to fix things. Sometimes…" she ducks her head, bashfully. "Sometimes I think I might like to train as a healer, but..."
"But? Why ever not? That sounds like a wonderful idea. You can come along to tend our wounds and lift our spirits, and we can keep you far from the fighting, if it suits you better."
She shakes her head. "You have to be so smart…" he frowns, opens his mouth to protest her implication, but she adds, "and they're healers because their mothers are healers, and their mothers were healers before them… I can't do magic…"
"Sigyn, I think I can get you a place with Eir," he waves her in closer like she has some great secret, and when she leans in, whispers: I have an in with the Allfather. He nods, winks, mock serious, and she giggles again. "And as for magic, have you ever tried? You could learn," he pauses, fidgeting. "I could teach you."
She whirls around to face him, eyes wide. "I… Loki, I know you can't. What your mother has taught you, it's… It's sacred, and secret, and—"
He cringes, squeezing his eyes shut, and lets out a slow breath. "That's… that's not why I haven't shown you. It's…" he winces, again. "I'm… afraid," he shakes his head, and Sige'e eyebrows knit together in concern, "that if I show you, if you know how it's done, you won't… find me interesting, anymore."
"Loki…" Her tender expression nearly breaks his heart as she stops in the path, taking his hands in hers. "Your seidr is yours, and yours to keep to yourself and share only as you choose. But… if you didn't have it… you must know that isn't why I like you? That it isn't because you're a prince, or a sorcerer, or sneak me into Odin's vault or away to other realms, or into healer's studies… that I don't want anything from you."
He smiles, feels his breath catch when he tries to answer. "I know," he says, never more certain of anything. "I know. And you must know that I want to do those things for you," he says, "with you."
They make the walk back to the Mead Hall hand in hand, light and music streaming from the doorway. Sigyn pauses just as they move to enter, looking up at the darkening sky. "It's getting late," she says, quietly, but her eyes are regretful. "We should be getting back." A glance up confirms the sun is beginning to set, colours drifting up through the grey haze of the cloudy sky. She's watching the inside of the mead hall longingly, and he comes to a decision.
There is no way in Náströnd Sigyn is going to work today, and Loki has absolutely no intention of returning her on time.
"It's fine. Midgard rotates at an angle, remember? We're far north," he assures her, "it gets dark early this time of year."
She brightens, reassured. He disappears her bow and quiver for her, and then she lets him lead her inside. Their group had been here not long before for their festival to mark the start of spring. Today's celebration is far less elaborate, last-minute as it is, and put together from what's left over from Ostara. The village is gathered around the tables (Egil is sitting with his family, and waves to them), the central fire roaring, musicians playing off to one side, a young girl darts around the room, harried, pouring mead. There's another pitcher sitting on a table by the door, and Sigyn, out of habit, immediately moves to help.
Loki stops her, pulling her back into his arms. "Sige," he whispers, soft laughter in his voice as he rests his chin on her shoulder, "you don't wait tables here. What are we?" she twists to look back at him, puzzled, and he gives her the first sound as a hint.
"Guests…?"
"Gods," he whispers against her ear, grinning. "We're gods."
The chieftain hastily shifts at the high table, he and his wife moving from the central places. "They give up the high seat when human "witches" come by too," he explains when she hesitates.
"I thought they didn't have magic…?"
"No, but they think they do."
The meal is meager by a prince of Asgard's standards, but there's something charming in its simplicity, and he gets to enjoy it beside her. It reminds him of the meals they'd had at Sigrun's cottage, the game, garden vegetables and fresh breads Sigyn would so proudly help her mother prepare.
He wishes the evening could go on forever.
He keeps running his hand through his hair to tidy it, a few unruly waves that formed when it dried stubbornly refusing to stay in place. Sigyn gasps when she notices one, eyes bright. "Your hair curls!" she exclaims. "Why do you not let it? It's adorable." His hair becomes a haphazard mess when left to its own devices, but he feels his face flush all the same. She thinks I'm cute.
A skald he remembers, still in town since the spring festival, challenges him to another flyting match. Loki gets the feeling he's had some clever insults ready in case he got the chance, but Loki trounces him again all the same. It's all in good fun, the crowd reacting to each traded barb, and the bard looks more impressed than embarrassed when he finally concedes again. Loki takes a theatrical bow, and glances back at Sigyn, the colour high in her cheeks, watching with her hands clasped over her mouth.
The Skald is especially interested when she tells them stories of her parents, heroes of Asgard both, of her father who fell in the battle to save them from Jötunheim's monstrous horde. "But you may well know more of that tale than I do," she confesses. He hears her voice break when they ask about her mother— but Sigyn takes a deep breath, and smiles despite the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Loki twines his fingers through hers, rubs reassuring little circles into the back of her hand with his thumb, and she tells them all about Lady Sigrun, once of the Valkyrior.
"Loki, it's getting dark…" she says, but the dancing's just begun.
"A little longer," he entreats. "One more dance."
It's in the middle of their third 'last' dance, breathless and laughing, that the servant strays too far to the center of the room, and accidentally collides with Sigyn. "Oh!" the metal pitcher clatters to the ground, splashing Sigyn's dress, and the servant goes pale, eyes wide, and falls to her knees.
"I'm sorry! My Lady, please forgive me, I—!" she's nearly in tears.
"No harm done, please, peace, friend," Sigyn soothes, and kneels, helping the trembling human to her feet. "Please don't be afraid— in Asgard I have your job," she admits, voice low, and the servant looks at her, stunned. "I dropped a tray of wine glasses, right in front of The King and Queen not long ago. Wine and glass and blood everywhere," she tells her, wincing sheepishly, and the human responds with a bewildered smile as she gathers up her pitcher and scurries away.
"Loki, the stars are out," she says, the distraction from the music and merriment causing her to glance outside, and he finally concedes. They bid Tønsberg a fond farewell, and set off into the darkness by the witchlight he conjures in his palm. It gives off a slight green light, but no heat (it's a long time into his studies before he manages fire, and even then it eludes him, always temperamental).
He drapes an arm over her shoulder as they walk. "Did you have fun?" She nods, head resting on his shoulder, smiling dreamily. "I'm glad. I had hoped some time in a smaller pond might do you good."
They reach the clearing of the Bifrost site, moonlight pooling into an open space between towering fir trees. He walks to the middle of the clearing, then hesitates, mouth pressed into a thin line as he thinks. "Wait," Loki says, stepping out of her grasp so he can face her better. "Sige, what if we just… didn't go back. What if we stayed here?"
"Loki," she smiles gently, eyebrows raised. "Your Father—"
"Wouldn't miss me."
"Your brother would."
Loki rolls his eyes. "Some days I feel you could replace me with a potted plant, and Thor wouldn't notice," he crinkles his nose. "If the plant were a cactus, he definitely wouldn't notice."
She takes his hand again, "and when your mother notices you missing?" That stops him in his tracks. "This day won't be easy for Sif, either. I was to meet with her after dinner service. I promised," she reminds him, and he sighs, letting it out as a slow breath, defeated.
"Alight, let's get home." He reverses the enchantment on her dress, convinces the threads they reflect light such that they're brown again, and drops the enchantment keeping them hidden, feels it slide from her form, light and cool as sheer silk. "Heimdall!" he calls upwards as they always have before. Nothing happens. Beside him, Sigyn's looking panicked, face pale in the moonlight. "It's fine," Loki assures her, "he's probably just… busy with something. You haven't travelled this way before, have you?" she shakes her head. "Might want to hang on to me."
Sigyn drapes her arms around his neck, watching him intently, so closer her breath tickles his cheek. He snakes an arm around her waist, holding her securely against him as he continues to shout upwards. "Alright, Heimdall, very funny, you've made your point!"
"Loki?"
"Hm?"
Sigyn pushes herself up on her tiptoes, and kisses him on the cheek. She draws back, suddenly nervous as he blinks at her in surprise. "I… I'm sorry, was that too bold? Did I—"
The grip on her waist tightens, his free hand slipping under her jaw as he tilts her face up to his and presses his lips to hers. It's chaste and sweet, hasty and clumsy, but his heart is pounding, his stomach is fluttering, and he feels her relax against him with a wistful sigh. They break away for air, smiling, and then the Bifrost opens above them.
She holds tight to him as they're pulled upwards as the swirling colours of its energy crash down, hurtling through the cosmos at impossible speed, and an instant later, they're dropped, gently, in the Observatory.
Sigyn stumbles into the chamber, still clinging to him. "Thank you, Sir Gatekeeper," Sigyn says after a moment of stunned laughter, when she's recovered from the shock of the travel.
Heimdall stands at the mechanism, and he smiles at her, but there's something more somber than usual in his expression. "You are most welcome, young lady."
Sigyn's brow furrows and she pulls away from Loki to move towards the exit. Heimdall stops him on the way by with a broad hand, "How did you get out?"
Loki grins, shrugs irreverently. "Even you must blink sometimes." The gatekeeper's expression is grim, but he lets him go.
"Hurry home, your Highness."
At the mouth of the chamber, Sigyn turns to him, eyes wide with panic. It's late evening.
"You were having so much fun…" he explains with an appeasing smile, her expression distraught. She shrugs off his coat and hands it back to him before tearing away towards the palace at a full sprint.
Loki sighs. He's never lied to her before, and it sat ill with him even before her reaction. He's afraid it might be a while before he gets to kiss her again, but Sigyn never stays mad for long.
He takes the same route at a brisk trot, though the closer he gets the more obvious it is that something is wrong. There are too many people around, the palace teeming as though for an event— and he's seeing far more figures in fine Vanir garb than usual.
Oh no.
He takes off in the direction of the kitchens, but glancing inside he doesn't find her. He does, however, overhear two of the other servers chatting amongst themselves, and his blood runs cold.
"—never have seen the old toad so red in the face, the poor thing."
The other girl lets out an incredulous bark of laughter. "Should've thought of that before she skived off and left us to deal with all this mess. Sacked for sure, this time."
"Pardon me ladies, but I couldn't help but overhear," they pale and bow deeply when he addresses them, trying to keep the panic he feels welling up in his throat from his voice.
The long-distance meeting with King Freyr had been far more productive than either side had anticipated, leading to a long, good-natured conversation that merited a drink together, and with the Bifrost it was easy enough to transport a number of important Vanir to Asgard for an impromptu feast to commemorate the previous year's victory. The household staff had been scrambling to accommodate the unexpected guests, the kitchens in a frenzy.
"Fim was furious when one of the girls just showed up a short while ago, been missing all day. Dragged her off, red as a beet."
"Where?" the servant starts at his urgency.
"I… somewhere that ways, your Highness, but I don't know exactly."
He curses under his breath and dashes down the hallway, ducking between the partygoers who spill out of the Great Hall. He stops at an intersection, and thinks. The back corridors the palace staff use are a labyrinth, he could be searching all night, and even if he did find her, he's suddenly far less confident in his ability to protect her than he had been that morning. He's in over his head.
Loki rushes towards the royal solar, skidding to a halt when he comes to a sitting room and finds Queen Frigga and her ladies in waiting, chatting with an elegant Vanir woman and her own flock of high-born Vanir girls. "Mother!" he exclaims, nearly sagging in relief.
"There you are," she rises to her feet, immediately noting his distress. "Excuse me, ladies," she says hurriedly, one of her hands slipping to his shoulder as she steers him towards their private living chambers. "Loki, what's happened? Where have you been?"
"I'm sorry. It's all my fault," he collapses next to her on their sofa, and it all comes pouring out at once, a frantic uninterrupted stream of near incomprehensible panic— everything but the means of his escape. "—he's going to send her to a farm," he concludes, eyes wide and chest heaving.
His mother hears it all, her face unreadable. "Go wash up and change your clothes," she says evenly, graceful strides carrying her towards the door. "Your brother and your friends are in the courtyard. Join them; I will handle this."
He stumbles back to his room still in a daze, smooths down his hair, puts on fresh clothes, and wanders out to find Thor and the others. Sure enough, they're gathered in the courtyard with two Vanir boys, drinks and plates of snacks in hand.
"Brother!" Thor exclaims, a grin lighting his face at the sight of him. "You've decided to join us! Where have you been all day? Holed up somewhere dark and secret with a good book I'd imagine."
"Something like that…"
Thor introduces him to their guests, who, as it turns out, intend to stay in Asgard for a while. The older one, who calls himself Theoric, is more interested in statecraft and culture, but what he can glean from his few words, the other, Hogun, is determined to study battle as the Aesir wage it.
Sif is drawn and distracted, fiddling with the skirts of her gown, her dark hair falling loose about her shoulders. Her eyes follow a pair of laughing revelers, watching as they celebrate the battle that took her mentor, and she takes a quiet sip of her drink. "Were you with Sige?" she keeps her voice low so the others don't hear, and Loki nods. "How is she?"
"Sad," he whispers back. "Trying not to show it. I think I did a fairly good job distracting her, until…." He bites back his words. "Everything should be alright," he assures her when she narrows her eyes at him, and he desperately hopes it's true. "She was looking forward to seeing you, later."
He can't focus on their group as they chat, Theoric going a little pale when they show Hogun the training weaponry. Loki's eyes keep eyes darting about to try and spot her, but there's nothing, no sign of her until the party has ended, and the Vanir guests (save the two boys, and a handful of others) return home.
There's a knock on his door as he's settling uneasily into bed, and his mother appears in his doorway. Loki sits up, attentive.
"The matter is resolved," she tells him. "Your friend will stay here, in my service."
He collapses back against his bed with a relieved sigh, but something in his mother's expression gives him pause.
"Goodnight, Loki," she says, before vanishing, the sliver of light cast across his room shrinking and blinking out the door closes behind her. Obviously she's not pleased that he snuck out of the realm without permission— Norns, he's bound to get an earful from his father in the morning.
But he doesn't. There's no mention of the incident, as if it never happened.
He can't find Sigyn the next day. The day after, he happens to be checking the lobby of the servant's quarters at just the right moment, and Sif and Sigyn are sitting together on the floor, a number of his mother's weapons gleaming, newly-sharpened, beside her.
"I didn't think those were real," Sif says as Sigyn brushes through her long, raven hair. "Aren't they just ornamental?"
"No," Sigyn replies, smiling. "They're sharp and beautiful," she pauses, a wicked smile pulling at her lips as she begins to separate strands of Sif's hair. "Rather like a queen should be," she nudges Sif's shoulder, and the other ásynja glares.
"You're really going to start this while I'm holding a sword?"
"Oh!" the redhead exclaims, "I know. When you're queen of Asgard, I can do your hair and weapons, take care of your armor, help you pick out pretty dresses…" she sighs. "It's not fair how you do both better than I do either."
Loki smiles to himself— she sounds alright— and slinks away. Best leave her her time with Sif, he'll track her down again later.
"You look nice in dresses," Sif insists, her voice drifting down the hallway as he retreats.
"Well I feel ridiculous."
Later in the same day, Sigyn sneaks into the royal solar as he's sitting with his mother pouring over a thick leather-bound tome. She hesitates at the sight of him, and tries to excuse herself.
"It's okay, Sige," he says brightly. "We're having a magic lesson. Mother, perhaps Sigyn would like to join us? She's interested in learning."
His mother lets out a slow breath, and Sigyn reaches for her hair, wringing her braid nervously. Alright, perhaps that's a bit much for an introduction— he'll show her some basics later, just the two of them.
Loki pushes himself out from the table and moves over to her. "So, we've been talking, and we've decided our next outing will be to Vanaheim. Theoric and Hogun— have you met them?— are going to show us around. We're going to hunt bilgesnipe. I don't know if that interests you— honestly, I could take or leave it— so either instead or afterwards," he begins, tempting, an eager grin baring his teeth, "the Vanir Royal Library is said to be remarkable."
"Surely no library could be as fine as Asgard's?" She sounds… disinterested. In books? He's never seen Sigyn react to the prospect with anything less than delight.
"Well, no," he admits, "Asgard's is far more extensive— but different books, Sigyn!" He moves to clasp her hands, but she takes a step back.
Sigyn smiles, placidly, eyes still lowered. "That sounds lovely, Your Highness. I wish you a pleasant journey."
"Sige…" he starts with a nervous laugh, desperation creeping into his tone, "you are coming with us…? It will be such fun," she still won't look at him. He feels his heart plunge into his stomach, his voice small when he manages, "Sige, please." She was fine with Sif earlier. Why is she like this now? Is it him? It's him.
Sigyn— his Sigyn— startlingly sweet, endlessly patient, impossibly forgiving Sigyn— won't even look at him.
Her fists clench the brown fabric of her skirts, her expression distressed. She raises her gaze, but to look past him, to his mother. "I don't want to go to Vanaheim," she says quietly, something in her eyes imploring Frigga to intervene, because she stands, and places a grounding hand on Loki's shoulder.
"Alright now," she eases, "let's let Sigyn go back to her business. Do you have schoolwork?" She makes an equivocating little gesture that ultimately resolves itself into a nod, so Frigga dismisses her for the evening and Sigyn gives an uncertain curtsy before hurrying away from the solar.
Loki wrenches himself from the grip of his shock then of his mother's gentle grasp. She calls after him to stop, but relents when his flight takes him deeper into their chambers, towards his own rooms, and not after her.
She finds him raiding his book cases in a panic, pulling tomes from the shelves and either discarding them on the floor or piling them in his arms, dropping the chosen collection at his desk and beginning to flip frantically through them. "I can't be the only creature that changes its shape," he insists without looking up from his fervent task when he becomes aware of her presence behind him. "That," he all but snarls, "is not Sigyn." It can't be Sigyn, he thinks, but can't find the courage to speak. Sigyn loves me.
"Loki…" His mother begins, gently, her hand coming to rest again on his shoulder.
"No, no, you don't understand," he continues, wild with dread, "that means I left her in Midgard. She could be— Something has her—!" He'd seen her back, if the thing's a huldra it was still his Sigyn when she got dressed. He can't think of when he'd taken his eyes off of her, but she sneaks, doesn't she? She wanders off without meaning to; she always has, even from him—
His mother hushes him, one hand smoothing down his hair, soothing.
"I have her bow," he insists, too engrossed in his spiralling thoughts to care how thick his voice has become, "it's her prized possession. I have it, and the arrows she made with her mother. She hasn't asked for it back, she would never leave those—"
"It's her, sweetheart," his mother says softly, "I swear to you: that is Sigyn Helgadóttir, safe and sound. I would know if she were not."
His breaths shake, hands curling into fists against the book he has thrown open to an entry on nøkker. A violent sweep of his arm sends the books crashing to the floor. "Then why—?" his voice fails him and his mother pulls him against her, reassuringly. He's humiliated, throat tight and eyes burning, fighting tears like some pathetic child, and he tries to pull away to save his dignity, but his mother has none of it, shushes him again, and he surrenders, accepts her comfort.
"Sometimes things just don't turn out the way we hope they will. I'm sorry, Loki."
He stays that way until he manages to regain his composure, though the sickly hollow feeling persists, its icy claws sunk deep into his heart. "Here," he says finally when his mother feels he's ready to be left alone and moves to leave. Loki draws the bow and quiver from the negative space, and leaves it with her.
Sigyn is thereafter always in his mother's company. She doesn't shadow her endlessly the way the highborn girls of the court do, but she flits, back and forth, from one task to the next, lighting only occasionally to sit with them for a time when his mother invites her, before she's off to something else.
The Queen lends her to the Great Hall on some busy evenings, provided Frigga herself has no need of her, Sigyn is willing, and that Fimafeng understands, in no uncertain terms, that she does not answer to him anymore. She attends to the tables just below the dais, and he's able to catch her eye once, just for an instant— all he does is look at her, and she immediately turns to leave.
He tries again, and again.
She's like a wisp of fairy fire that recedes when he tries to follow, leads him along like a wayward traveller, but still he tries. He checks their hiding places, and the gifts he leaves are untouched. His letters return to him unopened.
No joke, no trick, no verse, no clever play of words will move her beyond a polite smile and a hasty retreat— until the day he tries as Fandral.
It's a foolish impulse, but once he's had it he can't rid himself of the idea until he indulges it, and to his momentary delight and then horror, she greets him eagerly, is all too happy to chat about their classes and listens, rapt, to tales of their party's travels.
When he returns, she tells him, she'll want to hear all about Vanaheim.
As Volstagg, she begs him to take her hunting when he next goes.
When he's each of the Vanir boys in turn, she greets them warmly, welcomes them to Asgard. She asks questions of their homeland, and inquires after to their comfort here in hers. She's heard that Vanir archery is done differently, she tells then excitedly, and asks each if they might be able to show her how. As both, he has to tell her 'some other time.' Hogun is harder. Theoric relies on the Allspeak to transmit his meaning flawlessly, but the other boy is determined to actually learn the Asgardian tongue, and his words come out slowly, uncertain, and few (though Loki gets the sense that even in Vanir he says little). Sigyn beams, praises his efforts. It… very good… than this person's Vanir, she tries, struggling around the unfamiliar tones.
He dreads trying as Thor. If she's herself with Thor…
His resolve lasts a week.
"And to you, Your Highness!" she replies when 'Thor' bids her good morning, her smile as bright and warm as summer sun. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to ask about himself. What terrible thing has my brother done to draw your ire? How might he win back your affection? Mercy, please— he's suffered enough.
He manages an innocent conversation: brief, friendly, no mention of Thor's vexing little brother.
It's agony, an arrow to the heart.
Author's note:
And there it is, THE INCIDENT.
This is another one that got way out of hand with how long it was. There are a few scenes that will be part of the chapter after next that were originally included here. I had to cut a bunch of stuff because writing Sigyn and Loki being adorable happy babies is like my favourite, and oops I don't get to do that anymore. I may have some cut stuff on my tumblr, GeminiJackdaw :D
A huge thank you to everyone who's commented, I really appreciate the encouragement! And thank you to everyone who's read this far, I sincerely hope you're enjoying.