IV – adagio
At breakfast, no one dares to say a word.
Sif joins the table, as if nothing amiss, eyes black as—
Asgardians hide their smiles behind goblets, behind war-delicate hands. Loki looks murderous. Sigyn sips her ambrosia quietly. Somewhere in the corner, someone laughs.
V - complicit
Queen Frigga summons her in her weaving room.
"My son loves you," is the only thing she says, fingers deft with thread. Her eyes catch the golden light and it reminds Sigyn of Loki.
Sigyn understands. It is both assurance and request. Do not add to the fire. He is already yours.
Sometimes, a mother cannot (will not) look at a son's shortcomings. This, Sigyn understands too.
VI - love triumphant
Maybe this is it.
His cold fingers slip around the gentle wrist, warmth blooming in his palm. Sigyn does not look at his movements, looks at his eyes instead. Looks with the openness of a faithful wife.
"My Lord?"
Loki could not bring himself to look away from the face of devotion, burning bright. Sigyn is a candle fire that he can swallow, warm his hollow chest. Light him from the inside, make the frost in his veins quiet down. Sometimes, Loki wishes it isn't so. Because holding Sigyn like this, everything else is undeserving.
(even him)
"Loki?" asks Sigyn, unsure. Her free hand lifts to touch his own.
"In my pocket, there is a gift." Loki says, "Bring it out for me, please."
Sigyn reaches out, curious, her fingers a pull of gravity inside his tunic. Warm, warm. A golden bracelet; a large firestone dangles from it, rare and glinting in the light. A collar. A fitting leash for a phoenix. This is where the irony begins. He watches her mouth turn thin with the realization. Her eyes deepen in color, in unhidden emotion. There is a delight in seeing Sigyn this way, see how her fire in Loki's chest spike and burst and burn.
"You find pleasure in making me suffer," she says, reads his thoughts, scorches Loki's spine with spitting anger.
His fingers make quick work of the lock, slips the ornament smoothly across her wrist. His heart is full of love and with this, seals it to the woman before him.
"This is how you know that my heart is yours," he says, it makes you feel.
(caged)
But Sigyn's eyes say, I do not want it.
VII – diamond eyes
Sigyn, wife and second love of the second prince, seeks out the shadow. This shadow, great and ancient, has veins forged with steel, mouth coated in truth in all its forms, and eyes made of a thousand lights. This shadow sees everything in the realm of Odin and beyond, ever-vigilant.
"You must think me an apothecary to soothe your ills, dear princess," the shadow wastes no time for introductions, aims straight for the gullet, "Or perhaps a divining well that contains all the answers you seek. I must tell you, I am neither of those things."
Even without his gaze on her, Sigyn feels scrutinized down to the bone. She does not bother to hide her vulnerability, the madness plagues her. "I only think that you tell the truth. Out of all the beings in this realm. Not even the queen will extend me honesty."
"A grave accusation, princess." The shadow shifts in his position, tilts his head towards a little towards her.
"I ask for the truth."
"To what?"
"I think we both know what I ask for."
"There is a difference between telling the truth and seeing it."
"Then, pray tell, how do you see it?"
"The heart of the prince is a strange thing," the shadow says, neither offering to alleviate Sigyn's suffering nor to worsen it, "Like a mirror image, it appears differently to each one of us. Never trust outward appearances, princess Sigyn."
"And me, how do you see me?"
This time, the shadow turns fully to look at Sigyn. His eyes are molten gold. "Ah. Dear princess Sigyn. I only see that you love."
"Who?"
"Ah, that is the curious thing."
VIII - Act II
The whole court knows. Here, nothing ever stays secret forever.
A fool once said that if you wanted to see the true nature of any (self-proclaimed) respectable court, give them a scandal.
Asgard thinks itself above savages. But their eyes raptly follow the involved like actors upon the stage. Ears catch every sound. They do not miss anything. Every movement, every nuance is accounted for.
Now they wait, for it seems another actor is about to join the little act.
IX – noble truth of suffering
"The thing with these affairs is that they can go on for an eternity and a half."
Truth be told, Fandral dislikes euphemisms, finds them tasteless and unpleasant. He prefers the double entendre, for there is a delicate distinction (the question is where). But for double-edged circumstances, Fandral choses ambiguity between the ambiguous, leaves the interpretation to be analgesic or poison.
He steps beside her, stays a respectful distance but close enough to reach in and taste if he chooses. She stays unnaturally still, does not acknowledge anything. Together, they survey the careful congregation of royalties who look at each other in the corner of their smoked eyes, mouths sharp around dainty words. Euphemisms, Fandral has learned long ago, is the language of the court. And tonight, it is eloquent.
His eyes comb through the crowd, finds where the hall is truly revolving—the scandal of the night. They are standing on the opposite sides of the hall, each to their own. But he reads the tenseness of the back, the over insouciant smile all too clearly. Fandral has been a spectator of this performance for too long. The trickster and the warrior. He's almost memorized their gestures by now. They reek of guilt.
His eyes stray to wife of the prince. But what of the darling wife?
"Are you sure you can wait?" he makes his voice soft. Smiles alluringly without even trying.
A slow smile appears on Sigyn's mouth, looks over at him. Delivers with precision: "It is easy enough. If one knows how to pass the time."
He thinks the hall turns quiet all of a sudden. Feels like every pair of eyes are turned on them. Waiting.
Fandral inclines his head, returns her smile and walks on to join the wolves. His mouth suddenly feels like it's filled with sand—dry, arid. Much, much later, when he is in the privacy of his chambers, he tosses and turns Sigyn's words over and over and over and over in his mind. Fandral makes a discovery.
Two can play at this game.
X - returning salvo
"Where are you going?"
"Oh nowhere, dear. Just off for a game of chess."
She flits about the room in a cloud of beautiful robes and fragrant elfwood. Like she's going to be late for something (what a thought, that beings such as them would run out of time).
"With whom?"
"Oh no one, dear."
Loki watches her slip on the golden bracelet. Then she's gone, the doors swinging shut behind her.
Something nags at the back of his mind.