Mama's Boy
Loki is utterly devastated.
Such devastation should come as no surprise to anyone, least of all himself. It has been a mere week since he discovered that he has no chance with the woman with whom he has been completely enamored for decades. The woman with whom he had imagined, for all intents and purposes, he would end up spending the rest of his days. He has seen neither head nor tail of her since she sprinted out of the plaza beside the palace after his brother opened his stupid mouth. He knows not if she is deliberately avoiding him, or if she is simply too busy to make time for him, but her conspicuous absence is nerve-racking all the same.
Should he seek her out, he wonders. Should he wait for her to come around, which may very well never happen? Should he confront Haldana and slit her throat for ruining his fucking li—
"Your Highness," squeaks a soft voice, tearing him away from his errant thoughts.
He turns, and standing before him in the middle of the palace is Sigyn. She looks the same as always: hair lightly mussed, slight form draped in bulky armor originally designed for a far broader man, and eyes sharp with carefully concealed acumen.
And her full lips, impossibly long lashes—
Browed furrowed and lips pursed, she prompts him again. "Your Highness?"
"Yes," he responds, shaking his head so as to not continue staring at her so intently. He must stop thinking about her like in such a fashion. He must get over his romantic feelings for her. Otherwise, he will not be able to stand being around her, and he needs to have her around.
"Right, well," with her chin up and an almost challenging look in her eye, she tells him, "I would like to clarify something."
Oh, no. It really is over. Trying not to grimace too noticeably, he nods. "Please."
Almost immediately, she blurts, "It's not true," as though a dam has burst and these are the first and only words that had been waiting on its other side. The urgency in her voice tells him this is what she has wanted to say since she had arrived.
Unfortunately, he is not quite sure what she means to convey. "What?"
She takes a deep breath to compose herself before proceeding. "I am not a flannfluga."
"What," he repeats, simply unable to process the idea that very thing over which he has been obsessing for the past several days is not true.
"I am attracted to men and women. I have had relationships with women in the past," she continues, voice conveying a false sense of calm. "If you feel you cannot be friends with me for that reason, that is fine." Despite what this sounds like—some sort of concession on her part, perhaps that she will take no offense should he choose to end their association—something in her eyes stands out to him. Something flinty and solid, challenging him to alter her opinion of him. For many years now, they have been terrific friends, spending a considerable amount of time together and confiding in each other over a great many matters, and he has long suspected that they share the same feelings for one another. He knows how he would feel if she was to cut ties with him over an element of his own being—saddened and betrayed, to say the very least—just as he knows she would feel the same.
"No," he blurts at once. Desperate not to disappoint her, he finds himself turning to the floundering that usually accompanies Sigyn's uneasiness. "No, I-I am the same way."
Her unaffected façade slips. "What?"
What the fuck am I saying, he thinks, panicking. She doesn't need to know that yet.
Lamely, he responds, "Ah, yes." He has never before told anyone outside of a few past lovers about inclinations, so he is not quite sure what her reaction is going to be. It should be fine, he reasons. She has already confessed to having the same experience with attraction, after all.
She say nothing for several long seconds, her expression of thinly veiled shock unchanging. The longer she waits to speak, the higher his panic grows. He is on the verge of backtracking when she suddenly grabs his hands and squeals, "Why, that is amazing! Never have I met anyone else who," she pulls up short, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth as she thinks. "Oh, dear, I wish there was a word for it." She bites the inside of her cheek in contemplation. "Di- or bi-something, I don't know."
Loki makes a non-committal noise, wholly distracted by the feeling of her hands in his. They are appropriately calloused for a soldier's hands, though they feel smaller than he had expected they would. He refrains from stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. It would probably freak her out.
"I won't tell anyone, in case you're worried about that," she assures him, likely perplexed by his silence.
"Oh, no," he breathes, attention fixated on the concerned pout to her lips. "I trust you."
At his admission, her cheeks flush in a way he has only pictured in his mind. She mumbles something about how relieved she is and twists her fingers against his palms, which he imagines is her way of wringing her hands without letting go of his. Feeling her revert to her signature nervous tick, he finds his poise returning to him and decides to proceed with his plan to finally make her his, which starts with asking her to attend this weekend's ball on his arm. "So, since it would appear as though our siblings are liars," he drawls, delighting in the blush on her cheeks growing starker due to the renewed self-assurance in his voice, "I have something to ask you."
She quirks an eyebrow, and her nose scrunches up in bemusement. "I see not what those two things have to do with one another, but alright. Ask away."
He smiles and squeezes her hands. "My parents are throwing something of a feast this weekend. There will be dancing, drinking—"
"Naturally," she quips, smiling, too.
Giving a laugh, he continues, "I want you to accompany me."
The smile slips from her lips as her face goes slack. She disentangles her hands from his in favor of placing them on her hips.
Unease settles in his chest. His earlier conviction regarding her feelings for him grows distant once more, much as it had last week when his knavish brother and Sigyn's wretched sister had taken it upon themselves to interfere in his life. After Sigyn cleared everything up, just moments prior, his confidence had returned to him. Now, though, he imagines she wishes she could teleport away, and he is no longer so sure of himself.
"Listen," she starts, and he braces himself. "I can't."
He nothing in response, not certain of how he should respond. He tries not to look too doleful.
"You remember that I was promoted to captain," she asks, and he nods. "Well, my promotion comes with a unit transfer to the Queen's Guard, and the feast is my first day."
The Queen's Guard is the royal guard unit for his mother. It is comprised of a small group of dedicated, skilled men, consisting of around fifteen to twenty individuals at any given time. Each member is carefully considered and vetted. Being promoted to the Queen's Guard is a most reputable honor, second to only promotion to the King's Guard. Sigyn will be the only woman in history to receive the post. She would be insane to jeopardize this opportunity for a date.
"I understand completely," he graciously assures her. "Congratulations."
Face perking up from its preceding trepidation, she squeals again and jumps forward to envelop him in a tight hug, which he gladly returns. Her face presses into his chest, and his nose gets buried in her hair. She smells of lavender and metal.
She gives a final squeeze, gauntlet biting into his back a bit. She pulls away, smiling up at him. From over her shoulder, he notices that they have drawn the attention of a number of onlookers. He tugs lightly on her arm to lead her toward the terrace beyond the throne room.
"You know," he intones, grin a tad sly. "You will still be at the feast."
"Ah-ah," she chides teasingly. She stops for a moment to poke him in the chest. "I will be working. Do not bother me."
He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "And who are you to order me around?"
She smirks, clasping her hands behind her back. "I am Captain Sigyn of the Queen's Guard," she proudly proclaims.
They arrive at the low wall that surrounds the terrace, and she leans on its edge, looking out at the expanse of Asgard and the sea that lies below. She had told him once, years ago, that she loves the view from up here and that it is even better than the one from the top of the garrison. He wants to give her this view forever. His eyes crinkle fondly. "Yes, you are."
Loki next sees Sigyn when he arrives at the queen's quarters to escort his mother to the feast. She is standing behind Frigga and beside Commander Colborn, listening to hushed instructions from her superior. She nods at certain intervals, fingering the blue kerchief wrapped around her armored bicep with the same hand that clutches her golden spear. Her eyes lighten when they catch his from across the room, their dark brown hue sparkling brilliantly. Evidently determined not to be distracted, she stifles the smile that threatens to overtake her face and directs her attention back to her boss. Just as well, he supposes. She needs to keep her focus.
He tugs at the lapels of his emerald green dress robes as he approaches his mother, who is dressed up, as well. Frigga wears her hair in an extravagant updo and dons a shimmering, floor-length, deep sky blue gown typical of a monarch. He greets her, complimenting her visage this evening.
She sighs, shaking her head good-naturedly. "You and your silver-tongued flattery."
"One can only imagine whence I get it," he remarks. His mother hums, her lips twisted in a well-disposed smirk as she turns away to trade a few words with Colborn. Absent-minded, Loki lets his eyes slide to Sigyn, something he is often wont to do. She is already looking at him, which sends his heart stuttering in his chest.
A sly slant to her lips, she mouths, "Mama's boy."
Flustered despite himself, he flushes at her ribbing. When he twists his head away from her, he finds that his mother is looking at him, as well. Frigga's smirk is broader now, having borne witness to his interaction with her most freshman guard. He looks down at his fingernails, embarrassed anew.
Before long, the small party of royals and soldiers is headed for the ballroom and adjoining feast hall on the ground floor of the palace. Frigga's hand rests in the crook of Loki's arm as the group glides along.
"So," she discreetly murmurs from the side of her mouth just when Loki had thought he was out of the woods. "That's the girl your brother told me about."
By Buri, he inwardly curses in the name of his great-grandfather. I am never telling Thor anything ever again.
"She is very pretty," his mother goes on when he makes no verbal response. "I can see why you like her."
"Mother, please," he whispers, urging her to desist in her inquiry. Borr forbid, Sigyn overhears them; she is walking a mere two paces behind them.
Not one to be deterred, Frigga continues, "And she's not wrong either. You are a mama's boy."
"Mother," he groans. They enter the ballroom, and he wipes the grimace from his face just before they are announced. Thereafter, he separates himself from her as soon as possible.
He occupies himself with roasted fowl and fine mead during the feasting portion of the evening, but when the dancing and socializing starts, he finds himself with little to do. For some time, he rubs shoulders with a couple of his father's advisors, but that soon grows tiresome. As far as he is concerned, the venerable old men have grown out of touch. It would do everyone well for them to be replaced forthwith.
In the middle of the dance hall, Haldana and Aerick are twirling around. Spotting an opportunity to bully Haldana, Loki starts forward, determined to ruin her evening.
The young goddess wears a glimmering orange dress, her long golden hair cascading down her back. The jewels that hang from her ears and neck are light blue, matching her husband's suit. When she spots him approaching from over Aerick's shoulder, panic slips into her eyes.
He reaches their side, asking, "May I cut in?"
"No," she snaps, tightly gripping her husband's shoulders.
Aerick laughs nervously, slightly crooked white teeth flashing in the lamplight. Ever since he and Haldana had become involved, he has tiptoed around her friends. While he is a lord, he is not one of the same degree. Growing up and beyond, he had rarely been invited to their social gatherings. As such, he is not entirely comfortable with their group's dynamic. Awkwardly, he steps back from his wife and gestures his approval to Loki.
Moving to take Haldana's hand and slip an arm around her waist before she can make a run for it, Loki delights in her discomfort. Their relationship had not always been so poor, but it had never been great either. As children, they had played together only when she had tagged along with Sif and he with Thor. In young adulthood, most of his friends started to distance themselves from him, no longer enjoying his mischief as much as in years prior. Haldana in particular avoided him, which he chalked up to how much their parents wanted them to marry and how much she did not want to marry him. After he had met Sigyn, she had loathed him all the more. For the life of him, he cannot fathom her reasoning.
Well, maybe he can see a little of whence she is coming. He is known for being untrustworthy, and he has set his sights on her beloved sister.
They dance in silence for the length of a song. She tries to pull away before the next one starts, but he holds fast. "You know," he begins, leaning in to speak by her ear. "As the God of Lies, I am unaccustomed to people trying to lie to me."
Her teeth grind loud enough for him to hear. "I am not sure I catch your meaning."
He hums noncommittally from the back of his throat. "I think you do."
Another bout of silence ensues, her teeth grinding away. Finally, she speaks up, "It may do you well to heed my words when I caution you to stay away from Sigyn."
Their feet keep moving to the tune of the song. "Is that right?"
"She's not for you," she hisses into his ear before pulling away, manifestly having had enough with him.
He is about to retort when a piercing scream sounds through the room. Startled, the two of them swivel on their feet, searching for the source of the commotion.
Fighting has broken out at the far end of the ballroom. Norval, a young noble that has always had some rather extreme views by Loki's recollection, is trading blows with two soldiers. Two members of the Queen's Guard, to be specific.
Alarm flares through Loki. Frozen in place, he watches from afar as Norval tears through the first of the guards. The man falls to the floor, blood gushing from his right side as he ceases in all movement. Without missing a beat, Norval moves onto his remaining opponent, who had been momentarily distracted by his comrade's defeat.
The soldier deflects Norval's attacks as best he can, but it soon becomes apparent that his efforts will not be enough. A mere thirty seconds into their scuffle, the soldier's blade is knocked from his grip. His body sways to one side from the force of Norval's strike, and he narrowly avoids a hit to the back of his neck when someone else swoops in to parry Norval's oncoming stab.
The Queen Frigga has stepped in, having summoned her trademark silver shortsword into her grasp. Loki is appalled by the turn of events, distress settling in the pit of his stomach. There is no reason that she should be fighting in the place of the surviving members of her guard.
Fearless as ever, she darts forward, jabbing at Norval with the sharp edge of her weapon. He stumbles back, no doubt surprised that the queen has readily thrown herself into the fray. He counters her blows with the longsword that he should not have been able to sneak into the festivities. Loki surmises that Norval must have stowed it somewhere in the room prior to the feast.
Norval's shock lingers for but a brief juncture of time before he is once again attacking at full force. He and Frigga go back and forth with their blades, one of them gaining ground only to lose it a moment later, and so on and so forth. Norval is as aggressive and reckless as he has always been in battle, whereas Frigga fights more gracelessly than usual. Her movements remain quick and refined, but they are not as nimble as is normal.
Loki can only fathom as to why for a short time before Norval is burying his golden sword in the queen's chest, tearing a choked gasp out of every occupant of the hall.
At this, Loki finally finds himself able to move again. He steps forward, pulling a blade from thin air, but he stops afresh as pink light suddenly envelops his mother's form, leaving Sigyn standing with a sword in her breast. From his right, another anguished breath slips from Haldana's lips.
Norval's face slackens in surprise, but it quickly returns to its former enraged state when Sigyn coughs blood into it. With a roar, he pushes his arm out to fling her from his weapon and turns his attention to the real queen, who had been masquerading as Sigyn for who knows how long. Gradually, Sigyn slides off the blade, and Norval is too distracted to see her arm come up, much less anticipate her sword slicing through his throat.
Both bodies thump to the floor amidst absolute silence.