I apologize for the wait everyone! Next chapter will be much longer!
Part Two: Homestead
The Kvilla
His brother's insistence on performing so-called peace-keeping crusades as of late is running Loki ragged. There is a new realm or planet to liberate every week, and each campaign is more pointless and self-serving than the last.
Just this morning, their party had returned form Nornheim, where they had fought a terribly bloody battle. There had been a horde awaiting their arrival, teemed with angry men in stout protest of Asgard's imperialist ventures, which was fair. Frankly, Asgard should not be imposing its will on the other worlds—there is no need. Not that anyone cares what Loki thinks. After all, in two weeks, Thor will be crowned king, his ascent to the throne being hastened by their father's failing health.
For some time now, Odin has been afflicted by the Tremors, which Frigga fears may lead to him falling into the Odinsleep. Loki cannot help but share her concern. Odin is no longer the virile warrior he once was. As such, it is time for his son to lead the kingdom in his stead.
However, that son is not Thor. Loki's elder brother is far too immature. Ever since their father made clear he would soon inherit the throne, Thor has let his arrogance and folly drive nearly all of his decisions. Ergo, he insists on frequent trips to the other realms for the purpose of, as he calls it, maintaining amity. Furthermore, whenever they return from such ventures, an extravagant celebration awaits them, which Thor uses to remind everyone of how much better he is than his little brother with his snide comments.
Loki is absolutely sick of it. Snide comments are his thing.
Unsurprisingly, one of those very celebrations awaits him presently, and now that all the blood has been washed from his hair, he has little reason to delay his appearance further. Thus, he makes his way from his rooms, taking the long way to the Mead Hall and arriving several minutes later to a grand room already abuzz with activity. Lords and ladies are seated along the long feast tables, consuming food from overflowing platters and drink from brimming decanters.
He looks around for his brother, figuring he may as well get this over with and let Thor poke fun at him. He finds him at the end of the center table, and much to Loki's surprise, their mother is seated next to him. She pushes Thor's hair behind his ear as he chows down on a mutton leg. From this distance, he cannot hear their conversation over the din of the room, though he stops trying altogether when he notices Sigyn standing beside his mother's chair.
The golden armor she dons shimmers in the sunlight streaming in from the large, arching windows. Her hair hangs in its usual plait over her right shoulder. She has a deceptively relaxed grip on her spear, letting its butt rest on the ground next to her. Standing at attention, she quietly surveys the room for any potential threats to the queen, which she has quite gotten the hang of over the past twenty years. So much so that she can discreetly sneak treats from Aerick every minute or so without any trouble. He starts towards his family as she pops a cheese danish into her mouth.
Telepathically, he inquires, Enjoying your pastry?
Sigyn's dark brown eyes immediately snap to his form, her lips quirking as she continues chewing. I cannot believe you eat food like this all the time, she replies. Were I to regularly have this to eat, I fear I would be quite corpulent.
Poor people food not cutting it for you, he quips, sliding into the open seat between Fandral and Thor.
She raises a subtle, incredulous eyebrow at him. I am middle-class.
He turns to regard Thor and Frigga so that it does not look as though he and Sigyn are staring mindlessly at one another. That's just something poor people say.
Audibly, she barks out an unintentional laugh, and everyone in the immediate vicinity turns to her with bewildered expressions. Loki ducks his head to hide his smile when she tries to play it off by swatting at an imaginary bug.
When he looks back up, his mother is giving him a knowing look. "Loki, dear, how are you faring after Nornheim?"
Before he can reply, Thor ever so rudely inserts himself. "I should think he's faring well. Barely did any fighting, did you, Brother?"
Jaw clenched, Loki cannot help but take the bait. "Not everyone feels the need to throw around one's weight in battle. Sometimes, it is best to be tactical and bide one's time."
Thor takes a long swig from his mead, gulping messily. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."
Loki feels his hackles rising, but holds his tongue. It would do no good to create contention between them a mere two weeks before Thor's coronation. If everything is to go according to plan, Thor has to believe Loki to have only his best interests at heart.
Frigga stands, coming around to pat them both on the head. "You boys enjoy your feast." With that, she makes her way to the hall's exit, Sigyn following at a close distance behind her.
Rather unexpectedly, Fandral stands up as Sigyn passes him and calls her name, causing her to falter slightly in her stride. Volstagg snickers quietly, and Loki knows he is not going to enjoy whatever comes next.
Sigyn looks to Frigga for help, yet it appears as though no help is forthcoming. The queen has stopped by the door to watch the proceedings, likely interested in whatever prank is about to take place, being a trickster herself.
Fandral continues, his smarmy, not-so-charming grin in place, "I must say, I have noticed you to be truly stunning."
Lip pulling up in a grimace, she wonders, "What is happening?"
"Yes, Fandral," Haldana cuts in, seated beside Aerick on the other side of the table. "What is happening?"
Fandral looks around at her, giving a seemingly innocuous shrug. As he turns back around, he makes sure to spare Loki a wink. Loki's reciprocal glare promises a slow death. "I am simply asking a beautiful girl to dinner. Perhaps tonight?"
Loki has known it would only be a matter of time until others started copying Thor in taunting him, but for Fandral to include Sigyn in his antics is considerably unexpected. It is well known amongst his so-called friends that his relationship with Sigyn is somewhat of a sore spot for him, so why Fandral would risk his life like this is beyond him.
Lips pursed, Sigyn stares at a spot over Fandral's shoulder. As irritated as she so clearly is, Loki knows she would never go off on a member of the nobility as she would someone of her own creed. "Respectfully, your lordship," she begins, looking like she wants to swallow her own tongue. "I decline."
Fandral is entirely unbothered, immediately bowing out. "Ah, well. I expected as much. Why take a lord when you can have a prince, yes?"
People in the surrounding area had been glancing at Loki throughout Fandral's little show, but suddenly, all eyes, save for Sigyn's and Fandral's, are trained on him. He refuses to give an outward reaction, instead electing to reach for a glass of stout with a projected air of nonchalance.
When he turns back, Sigyn is still looking at Fandral, her mouth twisted in a terse, unhappy smile. Clearly at a loss for the appropriate response in this scenario, she simply nods in acknowledgment before turning away to follow Frigga out the door.
After Fandral returns to his seat, Haldana relentlessly berates him for hitting on her sister, threatening all manners of physical retribution should he ever do it again. She only stops when Aerick lightly places a hand on her arm in an ultimately successful effort to calm her.
"I hope you did not mind my little practical joke, Loki," Fandral says, finally addressing him directly.
"Goodness, no," he replies with a placid smile. "As I am sure you will not mind when I inevitably return the favor."
Fandral's expression turns imperceptibly nervous. "Exactly," he agrees.
"Exactly," Loki confirms, calmly sipping his stout. He'll have the Jotuns go after Fandral first.
It is roughly a week later when Sigyn has gone several days without coming into work, and as busy as Loki is planning treason, he can't not check up on her. He arrives at her house a few hours before dusk. His first several knocks receive no answer from her or her mother, so he pounds on the door harder, calling her name.
Who, her voice croaks within his mind. His worry increases tenfold. If even her mental presence is distinctly frail, she must not be doing well.
He doesn't bother to respond to her half-articulated question. Are you alright? What is the matter?
Kvilla, she answers. Don't come in. You'll it, too.
Do you mean, I'll get the Kvilla, too, he asks, growing even more concerned at her apparent disorientation.
Whatever, she grouses, and he hears an audible if faint groan sound through the door.
He tries the knob to see if it is unlocked, but it holds firm. Moreover, he is uncertain of how comfortable he is with breaking in. Threaten the stability of an empire? Sure. Trespass when there exists the potential of running into Sigyn's terrifying mother? He cannot say.
Sigyn, I will not contract the Kvilla from you, he assures her. I have been around plenty of people who have had it—including Thor—and never gotten it.
Much to his surprise, the door clicks open before him. It swings forward slightly, which he takes as invitation to enter. Assuming Sigyn to be in her room, he takes quicks steps on his way to the stairs. As he rounds the kitchen island, he almost steps on her.
She is lying on the ground in a rumpled, pink nightgown, hair strewn around her in something of a dark halo. Her skin has a sallow, yellow tint to it, and her eyes are red and glassy as she squints up at him.
"I'm surprised you let me in," he comments, unsure of how to proceed with the ill woman.
Her head lolls to the side. "Too tired fight."
"Okay," he sighs. "Why are you on the floor?"
She raises one of her hands to pick at a spot on the tile near her face. "When I'm in sad, I floor."
Oh, dear, he thinks mournfully, pressing his lips together and figuring he may as well lean into this. He lies down on his back next to her, face turned in her direction. It takes her a few seconds to register how close he is, and when her eyes finally focus on his face, she turns her head toward the island. He waits another second before speaking again, listening to Sigyn's labored breathing. "Where is your mother?" Walentyna is a healer, and she should be here taking care of her daughter.
"She never Kvilla," Sigyn responds, leaving much to be desired in her explanation, though Loki gets the picture. If Walentyna has never had the Kvilla, contracting it this late in life could prove fatal. The Kvilla is a generally harmless if inconvenient disease, but young children and those past the middle of their lives are at the highest risk for mortality. Sigyn, robust and in her prime, has a very good chance of recovering entirely within a few weeks, but not without proper care.
"Who is taking care of you," he presses, intent on receiving a legitimate answer.
With a startling burst of energy, she throws an arm above her head, pointing at the far wall. "Quimby."
Loki turns his neck enough to look behind them, finding only a cabinet strewn with knickknacks under a window in the spot where she is indicating. Gently, he tells her, "Quimby is not here."
Oddly enough, the man in question takes that exact moment to barge in. "Sigyn," he calls into the house. "Why is the door unlocked? Where are you?"
"Down here," Loki answers, taking the opportunity to get off the floor himself.
Quimby startles at the sight of him, clearly having not expected to see him in their sole mutual friend's kitchen. "Your Highness," he greets. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Good to see you, as well," Loki returns. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."
Quimby sighs, scratching the back of his head. His demeanor—while undoubtedly healthier—isn't much better off than that of the woman lying on the floor between them. He's visibly worn-out, his short blond hair sticking in every direction and his clothes covered in conspicuous stains. "Indeed. I—Wait," Quimby stops, having interrupted himself. "Have you ever had the Kvilla? Because that's what she has. She—"
"She has informed me thusly," he interjects. "And don't worry about me. I have managed fourteen-hundred forty-four years without catching it."
Bending down to pick up Sigyn, Quimby points out, "So did she." He heads up the stairs with Loki close behind. "Not that she is in her fifteenth century. She's younger."
Loki chuckles as he follows the other two Asgardians down the hall on the second floor. "I know how old she is."
"Really," Quimby grunts as he lowers Sigyn onto her bed. She moans in discomfort when she hits the bedding, rolling away from her friend. He goes on, "I only know her birth date because it is two days before mine. Hard to keep it from me when our parents made us share birthday parties."
"Really," Loki echoes. He had always known that Sigyn and Quimby are close, what with them being next-door neighbors. However, he had not been aware that they have known each other their entire lives. Sigyn truly does not like to talk about her other friends, he supposes.
Quimby nods fondly. "Walentyna used to leave Sigyn in my crib when she went off to work." Sitting on the side of her bed, he places a hand on Sigyn's forehead to read her temperature. "Our parents even wanted us to get married," he divulges as Sigyn's hand comes up to push his arm away, her face scrunched up in an uncomfortable pout.
"Why didn't you," Loki questions, unperturbed by the change in topic. Quimby is married with children, after all.
"Honestly? I don't like it when my woman is—stop it, stop—taller than me," he jokingly admits, out of breath and trying to wrestle Sigyn under the covers. After a valiant struggle, she reluctantly complies, curling up under the light blue sheets and smashing her face into the matching pillow. "Alright," he groans, getting up. "I have to get back to the little monsters who got her sick in the first place, so if you could give her the medicine on her bedside table in two hours, that would be great." He is almost through her bedroom door when he suddenly turns back, shoulders tense. "If you want to, that is. Obviously, I cannot request that you do anything."
Loki smiles graciously, conjuring a chair in which to sit. "I'll watch her."
Quimby relaxes, beaming in relief. "Great. Thank you so much. I'm sure you are plenty busy with the Prince Thor's coronation at the end of this week, so this means a lot."
Shrugging, Loki makes a noncommittal noise. Frankly, part of the reason he had stopped by to check in on Sigyn was to get the coronation off his mind, so having it brought up does little to please him.
Ostensibly, Quimby gives his lack of response little thought, already clomping down the stairs.
Loki returns his attention to Sigyn, her slumbering face turned in his direction. Her mouth is open with a thin line of drool leaking onto her pillow, so he brings one of the corners of her sheets to wipe it away. He tucks the corner back under her shoulder once her face is clean and lets her sleep.
As he does not have to wake her up for another two hours, he takes the chance to inspect her bedroom. He has only been in here on a handful of occasions, this being the only time of which he is not in his astral form. Standing from his chair, he takes a few steps around the room, though there is little space to really stretch his legs. His own bedroom is roughly seven times the size of hers, and that is excluding his closet, dressing room, bathroom, sitting room, dining room, and balcony. Truthfully, he is not quite sure his bed would even fit in here.
As he comes around the foot of her bed, he passes her dresser, atop which the music box he got her from Alfheim sits. He opens the lid, and the device's tinkling music begins to spill from its confines. Sigyn shifts as the tune floats across the room but remains asleep. Soon enough, he runs out of trinkets to peruse. He falls back into his chair, mind turning to the subject by which it has been dominated as of late.
In just one week, his plan with the Jotuns will finally commence. Originally, he had not intended for the attack to take place during Thor's coronation. However, when he had started scheming two decades ago, he never could have anticipated that it would come so soon. In fact, he had kept the Jotuns at bay for several years, deciding it would be best to wait for the such an occasion. Odin had told his family that he resolved to pass the crown onto Thor over dinner just five and a half years prior, and immediately afterward, Loki had travelled to Jotunheim in the dead of night to relay the news.
With only a week away, there is still much to do. First and foremost, he has to sort out three things. One, that the Jotuns know how to get to Odin's Vault. Two, where all the guards will be posted in the palace so as to limit fatalities. Three, that Thor is still naïve enough to be talked into going to Jotunheim for a mission of revenge via reverse psychology.
The last one is practically a sure thing, but one never does know what could potentially go wrong.
At some point in his deliberation, he must drift off because before he knows it, Sigyn is lightly tapping his shoulder in an effort to rouse him.
She stands next to him, hair pulled into a messy bun and body tightly wrapped in a warm-looking, beige robe. Much to his surprise, her eyes shine with lucidity. "Hey," her tired voice rasps. "Enjoy your nap?"
"What time is it," he wonders, blinking away the bleariness of his vision.
Moving to sit on the edge of her bed, which has been made, she tells him, "An hour past dusk."
"What," his voice booms, and she winces at the sudden noise. Quieter, he says, "I was supposed to give you medicine two hours ago."
Her mouth turns down in a spurious wince. "Yeah, but you didn't, and I died." She shakes her head at him in condemnation. "How will you break the news to my mother?"
Rolling his eyes, he tries and fails to hold back an amused smile. "You're terrible."
Tsking, she scolds him, "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."
"Stop it," he demands, laughing despite himself. She joins in, throwing her head back and full-on cackling. "How are you even cognizant?"
Giggles subsiding, she explains, "It is the medicine. It turns me into a person again, and then over the course of eight hours, I morph into whatever it was you found on the floor."
He stands. "Well, I'm happy to look after whatever it is should the need ever arise again."
"How generous," she croons, half-sarcastic. She wears a mocking smile, but it falls when her body is racked with a harsh shiver. He leans toward her, concerned, but she holds up a hand to stop him from getting too close. "You should probably head out, though. I would hate to infect you."
Loki objects, "You couldn't."
"Humor me," she requests, smile having returned. In that same vein, he agrees. Despite his confidence, he would really rather not get sick. "I would walk you to the door," she tells him, "but I don't want to."
He returns her earlier remark, "How generous." He leaves the room, but their conversation continues. I shall see you soon, I hope?
No. Her voice comes off as though she is gearing up for a joke. I'm dead.
Loki frowns, still not a fan of such humor. He makes sure to slam the front door behind him loud enough for her to hear so that she knows how he feels about it.
Her laughter trickles out into the street below.