Next to the gardens, her private balcony was Sigyn's favorite place in Glaðsheimr. It was not large, but what space not taken up by a small chair and table was filled to overflowing with greenery. Flora from six worlds sprouted side-by-side in a disorderly jumble that nevertheless grew harmoniously. Dahlias and daisies grew beside liaanthus and silver slippers, and one whole box hanging off the balcony was devoted to chime lilies from Vanaheim, which hummed like a purring cat and chimed like tiny bells when touched. There were herbs and spices—purple allium bulbs and basil and thyme from Midgard, chaiim and asartine from Svartálfheimr, and a small sprig of rare Ljósálfar blue-bloom tucked into a pot with its white aspen host. Over all rose climbing ivy, grown from a massive urn tucked against the wall.
The balcony was her sanctuary, and her one regret in not living in the palace quarters more often was she didn't get to see it as often as she would like.
Her quiet contemplation was interrupted by her maidservant, Ane. "Pardon, m'lady, but the Crown-Prince is here to see you." She looked positively awestruck.
Sigyn felt her eyes widen. "Prince Thor? Here to see me?"
"Yes, m'lady, he asked for you by name. I showed him to the sitting room."
She rose, flustered, and closed her book. "Did he say what it was about?"
Ane gave her a bewildered look. "No, m'lady. He is the prince."
Sigyn shook her head. "Yes, yes of course. Tell him I'll be there in a moment." She looked to her plants as Ane left, breathing deeply. She wrapped her hand around the bole of her miniature aspen, taking comfort in the rasp of its papery bark against her skin. "Right, the Crown-Prince. Come now, Sigyn, you spend time with a prince every day." Loki is different, a voice in the back of her mind whispered. He is not heir apparent, nor the funds behind your research.
She was as ready as she ever would be. She stepped through the open doors to her bedchamber, and from there into the hall. She could see her father in the sitting room speaking to someone, his wide, craggy features cautious but courteous. She walked toward him, and the muscled bulk of Thor appeared around the corner. Her first impression was of height, polished armor and blue eyes, and he stared at her as curiously as she stared back him. Sigyn had a feeling she knew why he had come to see her.
"This is my daughter, Sigyn," her father introduced, and Thor took her hand and kissed it. His beard scratched.
"My lady," he said. His voice was deep. He turned to her father. "If I might have a word with your daughter in private?"
"Yes, you may," Sigyn answered.
"As she says," Njall said easily. He stepped around the chairs toward Sigyn. He took her hand and squeezed it; Sigyn clung to him for a moment. "I'll be in my quarters if you need me," he said, and she nodded. He disappeared down the hall. Sigyn turned back to her guest.
"Prince Thor." She curtseyed. "What help can I offer today?"
The prince shifted, looking uncomfortable. "My brother is missing," he said. "I thought perhaps you might know where he has hidden himself."
That was unexpected. "Surely you should be able to find him. You grew together as children, I have known him but a month."
"That is true. I have checked all the places I know of, but neither I nor the men of the guard can find him. And... Loki has changed, since we were young." He looked almost lost.
Sigyn felt a moment's pity for the man before her. "How is it he came to be missing? I thought he was guarded at all times."
Of all possible responses, she did not expect Thor to hang his head in shame. "It is my fault," he said. "I spoke rashly to him, and upset him deeply. I had sent away the guard, and when he returned Loki had already vanished."
A sinking suspicion settled through her. "What did you say?"
Thor flushed. "There are... rumors of your association," he said, stumbling over the words. "I had not heard them, and my companions only recently enlightened me. I went to Loki to confront him about them."
He had heard rumors. Sigyn could guess which rumors he had heard; her own friends had not been so reticent in keeping her informed of the court's gossip. "I see. What did Loki say?"
Thor stared at her. "He said nothing."
Sigyn frowned. "Where was his paper and pencil?"
"There was no paper and pencil."
She felt her jaw drop. "Then you went after him when he had no way to defend himself? No way to offer his side of events?"
A look of dawning horror slid over Thor's handsome face. "I hadn't thought there was another side," he said. "I was in a rage, it never occurred to me he would have his own part to say."
Sigyn felt herself settle into a calm, righteous anger. "Then you are a fool, Giant-Slayer." Thor's eyes widened, but Sigyn didn't let him finish. "There is always another side to rumor. Is it any wonder your brother is angry with you, if this is how you treat him? Like he is an object rather than a person?"
At this, Thor's face darkened. "Do not belittle my love for my brother," he warned, but Sigyn had had enough.
"No, I wouldn't dream of it. You do that well enough yourself." She turned and strode down the hall. "The servants can show you out."
A hand caught her arm, and she rolled her eyes. It seemed the sons of Odin had more in common than they cared to realize. She looked at Thor. He was staring at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "Sometimes, it is too great, the guilt I feel for his punishment," he said. "Sometimes, it is easier if he is a monster."
Sigyn tugged her arm free. "Easier for you, perhaps, Thor. But it is not easier for Loki." She left the suite.
OOO
There was a quality to solitude, a restful ease, that healed. Set a body away from the eyes and expectations of others and it could afford to devote attention to itself.
It had been a long time since Loki had been alone. Always there was someone near him, listening to him, analyzing his every move for duplicity. Not only was he never alone, but he was inspected like an insect under a lens for any defect of bearing or character. It was exhausting. He stared up at the sky, crosshatched by the twining branches of the pomegranate tree. It was hard to believe he had once longed for companionship more than he had for air. He closed his eyes and drank in his solitude.
It couldn't last. Even as the last of the tension from facing Thor faded he heard footsteps down the narrow trail, around the bend where it disappeared behind a jumble of rocks. He heard the swish of fabric with them, soft as a sigh on a summer's night, and he resigned himself to being found once more.
Only, as he raised his eyes to glare at the intruder, the familiar, curly-headed form of Lady Sigyn appeared. It had been the brushing of her skirts, orange and gold and burnt sienna, and not the drapes of his jailer, that he had heard.
She was a fair sight better than any guard, but Loki was not in a mood to hear more words. His lips stung, and his heart ached, and the pit of anger in his belly seethed.
He expected her to demand where he had been, or make some inane remark of how difficult it had been to find him. He braced himself once more for the twisting stab of another's voice, but she did not speak. Her head tilted when she saw him, and a small, crooked smile traced itself upon her lips, but she said not a word. She stepped off the path toward him, hiking up her skirts to avoid thorns and roots as she did.
She wore soft, well-worn boots in place of a lady's slippers. Loki had never noticed, before.
Mere moments had her at his side, hunkering down to sit against the trunk of the tree with no regard for the state of her dress. Their shoulders brushed. Still, she said nothing, and twitched her braid over her shoulder. She unwound the cord at the end and placed it in Loki's slack hand. His fingers reflexively closed around it. It was sueded leather, dyed a rich orange. He ran it through his fingers and watched as she dissected her braid.
He would have imagined her humming to herself in such a situation. He didn't know if she could sing, but it seemed appropriate to the image of a noblewoman letting down her hair. She seemed unaware of the intimacy of the act she was performing in his presence, and he couldn't stop watching. He wrapped the cord around his fingers.
Soon the entire cascade was free from its confines, scattering willy-nilly in the faint breeze. Loki found himself wondering how she managed it. His own hair was difficult enough to tend, and he didn't have the abundant curl Sigyn boasted. She sighed and leaned back against the tree.
Surely now she would speak. It was a weight between them, his expectation. It was as clear as the pollen motes that drifted through the air. His curiosity began to outweigh his anger and hurt, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes, soft as a doe's, stared into the distance, and the straight line of her nose was limned with gold in the afternoon light. Her breast rose easily, and her hands, tiny and supple, were loose in her lap.
Loki raised his gaze, and she was watching him. He swallowed. He gestured to the garden about them, the cliff face surging up behind them, the water running deep in the fjord beyond. Her. Him. What was she doing here?
Sigyn treated him with a speculative squint, then began searching her skirts for something. Loki shifted to the side to give her better access. She tumbled out crumpled scraps of paper and calling cards and what looked like a sheaf of her research notes, and still she was digging.
Eventually she surfaced, a slim tube in hand. She stared at it, frowning, but shrugged and reached for one of the paper scraps she had discarded. She spread it out over her knee, smoothing it as much as she was able, and uncapped the tube to reveal a fine, charcoal pencil. She wrote something out, then gave it to him.
Loki took it, not quite comprehending. He stared at Sigyn; she raised an eyebrow and pointed at the paper. He ducked his head to read it.
I heard a rumor you might need some company.
Something clenched in Loki's chest, and he cleared his throat. He took the proffered pencil.
You should be careful about listening to rumors. Sometimes they're wildly inaccurate.
Yes, but this one was straight from the source.
?
Thor.
Loki stiffened and started to pull away, but Sigyn's hand on his knee kept him seated. When she was certain he wouldn't move, she picked up the pencil.
Your brother can be an immense fool, but he means well.
You think so, do you?
The conversation stalled as they ran out of paper. Sigyn reached for her sheaf of notes, and began writing on the cover.
Yes, and you know it, too. The first thing he did when he couldn't find you himself was come to me, and that on hearsay alone.
Loki's hand clenched against his thigh, and he forced the fingers to straighten. He was courteous to you?
Sigyn smiled. He was positively remorseful. Loki snorted; Sigyn poked him in the side. Don't be like that.
I shall be however I want.
Did you transform into a petulant three-year-old when I wasn't looking? Loki scowled, and tugged on a lock of her hair. Sigyn yelped, and retaliated by kicking his ankle. That simply wouldn't do, and Loki made his point by elbowing her ribs. Not to be outdone, Sigyn flung a clod of dirt at his head. He dodged it easily, and the look of mock outrage on her face brought a smile to his lips.
His stitched, torn lips. He hissed and ducked his head, bringing a hand to his mouth. He looked at his fingers; they came away red.
Gentle hands turned his head around, and tilted his face into the sunlight. He closed his eyes.
"You should go to the healers," Sigyn murmured. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones.
Loki shook his head, dislodging her hands. He took up the pencil. Not yet.
Sigyn gave him a long look, but nodded.
He looked down at the pencil in his hands, twirling it between his fingers. It was narrower than any pencil he had ever seen before, and the charcoal core was soft almost to the point of uselessness. Where did you get this?
It's a cosmetic pencil. To outline the eyes. Her cheeks were red.
Loki looked between her and the pencil. Won't you need it?
Not really. Normally I use kohl. We're lucky, I ran out yesterday and have been using that until I could get more.
There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. He let the conversation lag, and sat back to watch Sigyn.
Talking like this... he was forced to watch her. When she spoke he could focus on what she said, ignore what she did. Without her voice, however, that barrier was no longer there, and Loki had to take his cues from her body language. His eyes traced the line of her leg through her skirts. It was uncomfortably intimate.
Sigyn poked him, and he focused. She stood in a shower of defaced scraps of paper and, as he watched, plucked a pomegranate from the laden branches above. She plopped down beside him and pulled a pocketknife from her skirts. She decapitated the fruit, tossing the stem into the bushes, and sliced down the rind before splitting it apart. Seeds spilled from the sides, and Loki peered into the bloody pulp within. She handed it to him and took up the pencil.
Have you ever eaten a pomegranate before? Loki shook his head, picking out one of the seeds. It seemed to glow from within. You might be able to fit the pips between your stitches. She glanced at him. You said you missed the taste of food.
Loki bowed his head again, struck by a pain far deeper than that in his lips. He did as she bid and nudged the seed between the gaps in the vartari. It felt clumsy, and it stung where it tugged torn flesh, and he turned his face away, embarrassed. It fit through, however, and the sensation of sinking his teeth into something tangible was almost as intoxicating as the tart bite of the juice against his tongue. He shivered.
Sigyn said nothing for the rest of the afternoon, merely shared his company. They ate pomegranates until their fingers were stained, and Loki's lips were red from something other than blood.
OOO
Sigyn sat before her mirror and touched her cheek. It felt warm, even now.
When the time had come for them to leave their quiet island, Loki had stood and helped her to her feet. His hands had been cool against hers, dry and lightly callused. She looked up at him. His face was cast in planes of light and shadow by the fading afternoon light, and at once he seemed both harsh and regal, a warrior prince in his own right, savage or cultured as he saw fit. His eyes, though, held only gentleness, and an uncertainty Sigyn had never seen before. Their fingers twined, and almost as though gravity held sway between them they drew close.
He could not kiss her, she had realized. It was a quiet revelation, its sting dulled by the multitude of precedent. He would kiss her, and she would have him, but his lips were useless to them both. Even so, his hand rose to cup her cheek, and his eyes, dark in the burgeoning twilight, fluttered closed as he leaned in.
He had pressed his cheek against hers. Sigyn had smelled the clean scent of his skin, the crisp tang of the oils he used to slick back his hair, and the faint, sweet smell of sweat. His cheek was was warm against hers, and his stubble prickled at her skin. She had pressed closer to him then, nuzzling into his neck; his breath had stuttered, and she savored the memory of his chest hitching against hers.
He pulled back to trail the tip of his nose along her cheek, and rested his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes, saw him watching her. She reached up and kissed his nose before settling back into his arms. He had sighed, breath soft against her lips, and they stood there, embracing as lovers, sharing touches and sighs and silent promises instead of kisses.
Sigyn stared at her reflection. She had thought that her heart might swell and break from... not joy, or mere happiness, but something dark and beautiful and powerful, and rare beyond measure. She recalled Loki's hands against her face, the way they had trembled, and she thought perhaps he might feel the same.
He had offered to braid her hair before they left. His hands had been swift and sure, and she wondered where he had gained the skill.
They parted at the library promenade, where Loki's guards had reclaimed him with scowls and suspicious glances. They asked her where he had been; she answered truthfully: with her. She offered no more, and it was not their place to ask. She exchanged a lingering look with Loki before he went to his rooms. His eyes had been dark and unreadable.
It wasn't until Sigyn began to unwind her braid for the night, and a bright orange sprig fell to the floor, that she noticed the flowers. She craned her neck in the mirror. A tidy row of butterfly weed, marching all the way up to the crown of her head, had been woven into her hair.