THIS CHAPTER TOOK ME FOREVER, AND FOR GOOD REASON: IT'S 10,004 FUCKING WORDS AND SHIT GETS REAL.
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The Throne
The aftermath of the Jotun attack is madness. The coronation is cancelled, every soldier in the entirety of Asgard's military is pulling double-shifts, and for whatever Borr-forsaken reason, the Crown Prince takes it upon himself to attack Jotunheim. Worst yet, he somehow convinces Loki and Haldana to join him, and they all barely make it out alive. Odin is so furious thereafter that he banishes Thor from the realm, effectively deeming Loki as next in line for the throne. The king falls into the Odinsleep next.
Loki explains the minutiae of all of this to Sigyn, looking very put-upon and utterly worn-out. The two of them stand down the hall from his father's room during Sigyn's lunch break. She has been on-duty for over forty consecutive hours, and after recovering from the Kvilla a mere five days ago, she is fucking exhausted. Rubbing at her eyes, she suppresses a yawn as Loki continues.
"—Mother fears he won't awaken given how long he put this off, not to mention the added stress of Thor's banishment, the threat of a new war, and—" he cuts himself off, swallowing whatever he was about to say with a choked gasp.
"Hey," she soothes, reaching out to run a hand down his arm. "Relax. Everything is going to be alright."
Time stretches out as he stares down at her, lips pressed together in a tight, uncertain line. Abruptly, he turns away, striding into his rooms. With little hesitation, Sigyn follows after him, shifting her armor into day-clothes as she passes the threshold. She has been in his chambers—physically, that is—only a handful of times, and each one, she had been escorting his mother. Being here alone with him is likely frowned upon, so she tries to ignore the thrill that runs through her as best she can.
With Loki's new promotion to prince regent comes half of the King's Guard, much to his displeasure. The entire time they had been speaking in the hall, he had been trying to subtly inch them away from the Major Gulbrand and the Lieutenant Parttyli. As she closes the door behind her now, she sticks her tongue out at Gulbrand, matching the glare he has been giving her. Being on the Queen's Guard, she has worked with the King's Guard often as a king and queen are wont to spend time in each other's company. In spite of this, Gulbrand still holds little respect for her, believing those in his unit to be inherently superior to those in hers, which is completely unfounded. Though, it is possible she only thinks that because she hasn't a chance to join the King's Guard given how much Odin hates her.
When she turns back around, Loki is sporting a much more casual demeanor, having removed his golden-horned helmet. He sits slumped on an ornately decorated, yellow chaise lounge, rubbing the back of his neck. "How can you be sure," he asks, picking up their conversation from where it had left off.
Crossing her arms, she leans back against the edge of a polished wooden table nestled against the near wall and carefully considers her response. "Permission to speak freely?" Head ducked, he nods. She continues, "Your brother is a moron."
Loki's head snaps up, eyes widened in shock. It is once in a blue moon that she speaks ill of the royal family, and every other time, it has been in her head. Regardless, she presses on. It is not as though Thor will ever find out anyway, she figures.
Walking over, she takes a seat next to him and places a comforting hand on his knee. "You are smarter than him by a factor of a million. You are ready to be king."
He breaks eye contact, shaking his head. "I'm not—"
Patience waning at his lack of self-confidence, she grabs his cheeks, forcibly turning his attention back to her. "Even if you are not, though you are, your father will soon wake, properly hand down the throne, and guide you through this."
"And if he does not," he whispers, his cool breath gliding over her skin. His eyes search her face for any signs of faltering faith.
She keeps her expression as composed as she can manage. "He will," she assures him, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones in reassuring circles. "And he will be so glad that his son was there for the realm when he could not be."
Gradually, he relaxes into her touch, eyes closing and countenance softening in relief. "You're right."
"Obviously," she exclaims, pulling back and throwing her hands in the air. The tension in the room breaks, much to her relief. "Give me a little time, and I can figure out anything."
Loki leans back, an amused smile playing at his lips. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he appraises her. "Care to test that theory?"
Humming in assent, Sigyn feels that same thrill from earlier pick up her heartbeat. Ever since she had turned down Loki's advances a little over twenty years ago, their flirting has been fraught with more nervous excitement than ever before. "What do you suggest," she prompts.
"Dinner," he proposes. "Tomorrow night."
Her breath stops short, hitched in her throat. Why he would choose now—his brother in exile, his father asleep—to ask her out is beyond her. However, her heart does not seize up in fear as it did all those years ago, perhaps for those same reasons, not that she would ever admit that last bit aloud.
"I am not sure how good of an assessment that would be of my analytical skills," she counters, not-so-subtly trying to side-step the topic.
"Sigyn," he intones, and she exhales heavily, dropping the front.
"We've discussed this," she reminds him.
"Yes," he agrees, making ready to deliver a rebuttal. He takes her hand, much in the same way he had the first time they had this conversation. "Though you cannot deny things are different now than they were then."
Half-nodding, she confirms, "I cannot, but—"
He barrels past her attempt at dissuasion. "You spoke of your fears, but which, if any, of those fears remain? Odin sleeps now, incapable of conveying his disapproval. Moreover, when he wakes, he will see what I have done for the realm, as you said, and perhaps he will finally allow me to delineate the favorable aspects of our relationship."
Sigyn blows out a slow breath, head turned to the side. She stares at a carpeted floor so clean it looks as though no one has ever stepped on it and tries in vain to think of a good counter argument, especially considering his parents' approval would solve the problem of her mother's disapproval.
"Having trouble figuring your way out of this one," he ventures. When she looks back him, he has one eyebrow raised and a tiny smirk adorning his face. "I have my own analytical skills."
Sigyn grins despite herself, though it doesn't last through her next comment. "Very well, but you've much on your mind at present, and—"
Loki is quick to point out that "This is hardly a spur-of-the-moment affair. I have wanted to share a meal with you in this capacity for decades now."
She cannot help but be cheeky even as she feels the last of her will to refuse melt away. "We've shared meals."
"In this capacity," he repeats, lips quirking.
Biting her lip to keep from smiling again—and failing again—she looks toward the ceiling this time, though no longer in an effort to think of a way out of his offer of a date, but rather to maintain her composure. She has wanted him for decades, and with all of their troubles out of the way—to so crudely put it—well, why not?
"Okay," she acquiesces, gazing into green eyes.
"'Okay,'" he repeats, sitting up a little straighter. "'Okay,' you'll go on a date with me?"
She places her free hand on his. "Okay, I'll go on a date with you." Their faces break out into identical grins, and she has to stop herself from pushing him away and peeling into laughter. "Don't look so surprised or so pleased with yourself," she discourages, huffing out just a hint of a chuckle.
He hums in response—whether in acknowledgment or disagreement, she knows not—leaning back and releasing her hand. "You should go."
"Oh," she replies, standing up. "Do you not want me to see your little happy dance?"
"What I do not want is for you to go your entire lunch hour without eating anything," he says, and her heart picks up anew.
She tries and fails to be aloof, unable to keep her mouth from tugging up into a coy smile. "How considerate." She walks backward to the door, not wanting to break eye contact despite how red looking at him makes her face. "Until tomorrow night."
When the door is closed behind her, she allows herself to let loose a tiny squeal of excitement, pumping her fist in the air. However, her own little happy dance is cut short when someone clears their throat. She turns her head to the side to receive Gulbrand's third unimpressed glare of the day, and her voice drops back down to its usual pitch, "Bite me."
"So, what do you think," Sigyn asks Elshe eighteen hours later. They stand in Sigyn's kitchen, discussing her choice of attire for the evening.
Sigyn had gotten off work at dawn, walked home, and immediately collapsed onto her bed. Two hours ago, her mother had shaken her awake, chastising her for sleeping so far into the day, and seeing as how no objection could send her mother away, she had followed Walentyna downstairs for afternoon-breakfast. The moment Walentyna had left for the night-shift at the hospital, Sigyn had dashed next door and dragged Elshe and the triplets into her house.
When Elshe had asked why Sigyn needed help in deciding what to wear, and Sigyn had told her that she has a date with Loki, Elshe had expressed her concern. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Picking up Jarvi, her secret favorite, Sigyn had responded, "I have worked so hard for decades to keep him at bay, but the timing is finally right."
At three-years-old, the fraternal triplets are perfect carbon-copies of Quimby with short yellow hair that sticks up in all directions and light blue-green eyes. The youngest, Halle, is slightly taller than his brothers and the most carefree of the three. Jarvi, the adorable middle child, is the prankster of his family, constantly snatching up his brothers' toys and discovering astonishingly hard-to-find hiding spots wherever he goes. Askel, the eldest, is a well-composed child who has never thrown a tantrum and hardly ever cried as a baby. If Sigyn was to be perfectly candid, she would have to admit that he kind of freaks her out.
Elshe had followed up with a perplexed frown and hand thrown in the air. "So, you're rewarding yourself by giving in?"
Sigyn had pulled Jarvi's sticky hand from her hair, countering, "I—Shut up."
"Shut up," Halle had mimicked in his squeaky toddler voice, yelling at Askel, who had looked on with cool indifference.
Guiltily, Sigyn had glanced over at Elshe, who had told her in a sarcastic deadpan, "Thank you."
At present, Sigyn gestures down her frame at the long gown adorning it as the boys play with colorful wooden blocks she had conjured for them in the adjoining living room. "Blue," she asks, allowing her friend to take in the sight before changing the color of the dress to a cheerful rose. "Or pink?"
Elshe hums in contemplation, leaning over the kitchen island's counter and squinting at Sigyn. "Pink."
"Really," Sigyn pouts, lamenting Elshe's decision. "Blue is my favorite color."
"Yes," Elshe grants, "but pink is your color. It suits your complexion and matches your magic."
Sweeping her hands down her skirt, Sigyn relents, grumbling, "Okay." She twirls around a little, thinking about how she wants to do her hair before she heads out in two hours.
"Wait," Elshe says. Sigyn freezes with her legs crossed, skirt fluttering back down to kiss her ankles. "Can you make the seams gold?"
Curious to see the results, Sigyn follows her instructions. The seams of the gown gleam a brighter shade of pink as her magic runs over them. After the shimmering light fades, the seams stand out, a stark, glittering light gold against the rosy pink fabric of the dress. Lines of gold run over her shoulders and down her legs, arcing across her stomach and under her collarbone. Cooing in delight, she picks up her skirts to better admire the stitchery.
Elshe looks at her as though to say See? I told you, before asking, "Now, tell me, where is this date taking place?"
Grabbing the letter she had received earlier whence she had left it on the kitchen island, Sigyn re-reads its contents before answering, "The palace's third private dining room." The letter lacks directions, but for good reason. She has been walking the palace halls for years. She knows the third dining room is two left turns and one right turn down the eastern corridors from the throne room.
"The 'third private dining room,'" Elshe comments, brow raised in mock indignation. "He's holding out on you."
Snorting, Sigyn replies, "Hardly. The first and second are far too big for two people." She tucks the letter back into its accompanying envelope and lets it disappear from her hand. It vanishes in a flurry of pink luminesce.
"How do you know that," Elshe asks with a confused laugh.
Sigyn gives her an incredulous look. "You realize it's my job to follow around the Queen Frigga, yes?"
Elshe leans further onto the island, wincing trenchantly. "Just a tip for tonight: I'd not lead with the fact that you regularly stalk his mother."
"Ha-ha," Sigyn returns, hands on her hips. A knock sounds at the door, momentarily drawing their attention. As she steps over to answer it, she inquires, "Any other nuggets of wisdom you'd like to share?" Hand on the knob, she waits for a response.
"Nothing comes to mind," Elshe divulges with an impish smile, shrugging.
Mouth drawn in a line, Sigyn shakes her head at her friend as she opens the door. Once it hangs wide, she turns to acknowledge whomever stands on its other side, surprised to find her sister, the Lady Sif, and the Warriors Three. Rather lamely, she greets, "Um, hello."
Standing at the front of the group, Sif tells her, "There is an urgent matter we must discuss with you presently." She waits not a second longer before stepping into Sigyn's house uninvited, her friends following her rather shamelessly. Haldana gives Sigyn a sheepish shrug as she steps inside, and Hogun nods to her as he crosses the threshold. Once they have all filed into her kitchen, they stand in silence, as though waiting for something.
Elshe lets another beat pass before sighing and patting Sigyn on the shoulder as she steps around the island. "Boys, come along," she calls. She heads to the door as her sons crowd around her skirts. As she tugs Halle out of the way of the closing the door, she verbally tells Sigyn, "I'll see you tomorrow," and inaudibly mouths, "Good luck."
Without anything else with which to stall, Sigyn lets her arms fall to her sides and asks in her most hospitable voice, "How may I be of service?"
"We need you to convince Loki to revoke Thor's banishment," Sif instructs without further preamble, explanation, or an ounce of humor in her tone.
Sigyn's eyes dart between Sif and the rest of her unexpected guests. Unbidden, she barks out a disbelieving laugh. "Surely, you jest." When none of their expressions convey any sign of farce, she moves onto objections. "What makes you think I can convince him of anything of the sort?"
Haldana rolls her eyes. "Surely, you jest. Loki would jump in front of a mad bilgesnipe for you."
"The Prince Loki would jump in front of a mad bilgesnipe for fun," Sigyn retorts, side-stepping the implications of her sister's statement.
Volstagg chuckles heartily, but falls silent when Fandral elbows him in the side. "What," he asks, shifting awkwardly. "She's right." Sigyn gives him an appreciative nod, which he returns.
"Sigyn," Haldana reprimands, as though it is entirely her fault that the conversation had derailed.
Sigyn sighs. "My apologies. Allow me to rephrase my question. What makes you think I would convince him of anything of the sort?"
Sif takes a somber step forward, her voice dangerously quiet as she asks, "I beg your pardon?"
She knows she is outnumbered in respect to her thoughts on the matter at hand, but Sigyn feels little threat from the nobles standing in her house. After all, they have little power over her so long as she stands with Loki. "I see no value in speaking to His Highness about the status of his brother's exile."
"Why not," Haldana snaps, joining Sif in striding forward with contemptuous fire in her eyes.
Hands extended and palms facing upward in a gesture of amity, she explains, "The Prince Loki undoubtedly misses his brother far more than any of you. If he does not permit the Prince Thor's return, I am certain he has good reason."
"He is the one who informed the Allfather of our trip to Jotunheim," Hogun chimes in. Sigyn fails to see the statement's relevance to the current topic of conversation, though she indulges him nonetheless.
Stepping forward brashly, as well, she blusters, "And that is the only reason any of you stand in my house drawing breath!"
Haldana sneers with resentment, and Sigyn blanches at the ugly emotion flitting across her sister's face. "This is more my house than it is yours," she reminds Sigyn, voice cold.
Flinching back in shock, Sigyn tries not to let the offense of what Haldana has said show on her face. She cannot imagine why her sister would suddenly want to rip into her by means of bringing up such a sensitive subject, but she certainly does not want to give Haldana the pleasure of knowing it got to her.
However, she does not have long to think about it. Next thing she knows, Sif is turning up her nose and asking, "Why do you look so nice?"
Sigyn scoffs, completely offended at the bombardment of insults coming her way. I always look nice, damn it, she silently conveys to herself, glaring up at the two women before her.
Fandral jumps in before any fists go flying. "Forgive her, dear. You always look lovely, but tonight, you are exquisite."
Sigyn turns her glare to him, shoving a manicured finger in his face for good measure. "You have got to stop." She had tolerated his remarks a week ago because she had thought it was a one-time thing to piss off Loki, but bothering her in her own house—yes, it is her fucking house—is where she draws the line. As though taken aback, he holds his hands up in self-defense and dons an innocent, wide-eyed look that no one buys.
Haldana plants a hand on her hip, appraising Sigyn with judgment in her eyes. "You're seeing Loki tonight," she surmises.
Sigyn has half the mind to look contrite simply to appease Haldana but thinks better of it when she recalls that her sister had spitefully thrown her inability to own property in her face just moments ago. Instead, she lets a slight, smug smile slip onto her face, tilting her head to the side just so to really complete the look.
Positively seething with fury, Haldana clenches her hands into fists. Her face flames to a spectacular red hue, and she marches out of the house, screaming, "Fuck!" The door slams soundly behind her.
Satisfied grin still in place, Sigyn follows the same path her sister had taken to the door, though at a much more leisurely pace, and tugs it open. She turns to her remaining company with an absolutely sunny disposition. "Thank you all for stopping by."
The four of them, looking far more discouraged than they had when they had arrived—which is saying something—take their leave one by one. Sigyn maintains her phony gracious demeanor as each of them passes her, save for Fandral. Her face slides into more of a grimace for him.
The last of them to leave, Hogun, stops short of stepping onto the street. "The Jotun King warned us of a traitor in the House of Odin," he apprises her, voice low and earnest. His dark eyes stare deep into hers. "Be watchful of Loki."
She nods, mostly out of respect for his position. However dishonestly, she promises, "I shall keep an eye out, Commander."
She heads up the stairs once she has locked the door, already thinking about whether she is going to focus on her eyes or lips for her make-up.
Sigyn arrives at the palace an hour past dusk. She has loosened most of her hair from its usual braid, and it hangs in waves over her shoulders and down her back with two strips pulled behind her head and tied there. Her eyes are lined with light streaks of kohl, contrasting nicely with her otherwise light, deceptively sparely-done make-up. She had planned on heading straight to the location Loki had specified in his letter, so she is surprised when two members of the King's Guard intercept her on the palace steps.
One of them, the Captain Dagfinn, greets her, "Lady Sigyn." She pulls up short at the mode of address, not quite sure if he is being serious for a moment. The mordant tilt to his smile gives him away, and she frowns.
"Don't try to be cute, Dag," she snarls. "It doesn't work with your ugly mug." As it is clear that Loki sent his guards to escort her, she falls into place between them. They start their ascent up the steps.
On her left, the Captain Stian snorts at her remark. "You certainly think highly of yourself now that you are openly fucking the King."
"She's always thought highly of herself," Dagfinn adds lowly, and the two men snicker softly behind her back as they walk through the throne room.
Briefly halting in her tracks, she regards each of them with a firm glare before resuming her steps. "Firstly," she starts, pointing at Stian. "You may not poke fun at me. Only Dag."
Dagfinn had been the first member of the King's Guard to extend a cordial welcome to her when she had first started working closely with them. He had helped her learn the ropes of being on such an elite team and practically always on-call. Sure, he is a pain every once in a while, but who isn't?
Stian is just a dick.
"Secondly," she continues, rolling her eyes. "The Prince Loki and I are not together in any capacity."
They take the first left turn of the eastern corridors as Stian asks, "What is this, then?" His voice rings with intention to convey disparaging implications, and Sigyn does not like that one bit.
She shoots him another glare. "This is the end of this conversation," she dodges, incrementally speeding up her gait, ready for this supervised stroll to be over. The three of them make the last two turns of their journey in palpable silence. Once the doors to the dining room are in sight, Sigyn uses her powers to flick one of them open. She darts through it before the men can follow, sticking out her tongue at Stian before it clicks shut behind her.
Having been in this room many a time, her eyes barely skim her surroundings—high, gilded walls lined with intricate designs and a long mahogany table that eats up a quarter of the room—before landing on the object of her affections. Loki stands at the near end of the table, looking as polished as ever. His attire consists of long, black slacks with gold thread running down the legs, shining boots, and a deep green coat, much like the color of her captain's cape. His hair has been brushed back, though a few strands dangle over his temples.
Sigyn, having now completely forgotten about the interaction on the way here, makes the short journey across the room, meeting him in the middle.
"You look radiant," he compliments.
Pleasantly surprised—or rather not, she had spent hours getting ready—she blushes, though she suspects that he cannot tell given all the powder and artificial blush she had applied. She grasps his hands. "As do you."
Loki smiles, as though somehow not having expected her to return the sentiment. He pulls out her chair with one hand, albeit a little awkwardly. "Please, have a seat."
Sigyn, delighting in his sudden nervousness, takes her seat. She teases, "If you insist."
The first course has been already laid out on the table—by design, Sigyn suspects, so that they won't be interrupted for some time. It is a typical if luxurious spread: a larger than average loaf of rye and barley at the table's center, bowls of pea soup for each of them, and plenty of garnishes of which she does not understand the point.
Loki goes around the table to his own chair. "Are you going to antagonize me for the duration of the evening?"
Sigyn grins cheekily as he too sits. "I've found it is best, on a first date, to establish one's dominance, so as to be on top."
Loki shrugs, nerves manifestly forgotten. His eyes gleam with mischief. "I don't have a problem with you being on top."
Sigyn's face flames, her eyebrows shooting up and lips pursing in overt embarrassment. "Wow. Don't hold back."
"Don't dish it if you can't take it," he suggests.
"I didn't—You," she stutters. Holding up her hands in surrender, she digresses, "Never mind." She picks up her spoon and looks at him pointedly, as though to say take a sip so I can, too, and she does, though not aloud.
"Ladies first," he insists, forgoing the telepathic exchange and seemingly not put-out in the least.
Laughing, she thinks back to her interaction with Dagfinn and says, "I am not a lady. Besides, I know it goes royalty first, nobility second, and all that."
A peculiar expression flits across his face, though it is gone too quickly for her to decipher. "You needn't worry about that when it is just the two of us."
Following another brief moment of hesitation, Sigyn agrees, "Okay," and takes a sip.
The second course consists of several thin slices of salted pork artfully strewn atop a bed of dark, leafy greens. Sigyn almost makes the mistake of reaching forward to serve herself before she takes notice of one of the servants filling Loki's plate. She smiles in thanks when the young woman comes around the table to fill hers.
They both get about halfway through their plates before Loki is just pushing around the food on his dish. When she notices, Sigyn contemplates bringing up his obvious state of distraction, not to mention the rather sudden shift in mood, but she swallows her question when he suddenly looks up.
He seems oddly encouraged to have found her already staring at him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course," she immediately answers, ready to tell him anything that will wipe that hurt-puppy look from his face.
He gives himself another second before asking, "What do you think of Frost Giants?"
The query catches her off guard, as he had evidently thought it would. She takes a moment to carefully consider her response as it appears—for whatever reason—to be a loaded question. "I'm not sure."
His fork twists in his grip. "What do you mean?"
"Well," she flounders, making a vague gesture. "I've never met one. I cannot judge them very well, can I?"
He places the fork next to his plate, as though unable to afford any distraction from what she says. "Do you imply that you would judge them personally?"
She gives an awkward smile, not sure why he is so fixated on the topic. Perhaps he is facing a moral dilemma at the prospect of deciding what to do in regards to Jotunheim now that he is at the helm of Asgard. "I suppose."
"So, hypothetically," he goes on, "if you judged them favorably, you could even befriend one?"
"Not with the current political climate, certainly," she points out. "But hypothetically, I don't see why not. Why do you ask?"
Half-shrugging, he replies, "No reason." The words are accompanied by a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. Though she is still unsure as to what his thought process is, she is certainly glad to feel the tension in the room dissipate.
"Okay, weirdo," she teases, feeding off his apparent amusement. In keeping with the current topic of conversation, she asks, "What was Jotunheim like?"
His eyes take on a far-off look. "It was not somewhere I would have ever wanted to live."
Sigyn's lips press together, firm and uncomfortable at the tension being once again set over the table. "My bad. I shouldn't have asked that," she belatedly retracts, quietly and mostly to herself. Her eyes dart about in search of a new topic. "Uhh, what's this green stuff?"
Successfully distracted, his eyes fall to her plate, which now has far more leafy greens than pork. "The kale?"
"Kale," she echoes, getting a feel for the word in her mouth, along with the continuously unpleasant taste.
Amused, he smiles indulgently, earlier discomfort gone from his mind. "I take it you are not a fan?"
"No," she refutes, scooping a leaf or two onto her fork. "I love it. See?" With no further delay, she shovels the contents of her fork into her mouth, instantly regretting it. Nonetheless, she chews the vegetables dutifully, and swallows. "It is so bitter," she comments, trying and failing to make it sound like praise. Much to her relief, he gives a genuine laugh, breath blowing out of his nose.
Dinner passes fairly quickly after that. The two of them enjoy their dessert along with amusing anecdotes—some of which the other has heard before—and idle chatter.
"He coughed directly into your mouth," Loki asks as they rise from their seats, looking both horrified and faintly nauseated.
"It was disgusting," she confirms, slipping her hand into the crook of his proffered arm. He leads her from the dining room. "Though it is difficult to be angry with an ill toddler, so I did not press the issue. The next day, I was just as sick as were they."
They head down the hall at a leisurely pace. Sigyn notices a conspicuous absence of palace sentries. Right after an attack by a foreign adversary, the lack of security is rather odd, to say the least.
"So, how have you been feeling lately? Do you think you've made a full recovery," he inquires, drawing her attention back to the conversation at hand.
They enter the throne room, and she divulges, "I am still fairly fatigued, but the worst of it is over."
"Thank goodness for that," he says, bringing them to a stop at the foot of the throne.
She glances down at it before returning her gaze to him. "What? Are you feeling fatigued now? Need to take a seat?"
"Not particularly." He smiles wickedly. "I thought you might like to, however."
Laughing derisively, she waits for him to join in, but he does not. "You—Are you joking?"
On the off-chance that he is not joking—though obviously, he is—she is absolutely stymied at the mere suggestion. For her, a peasant, to place her ass on the throne? Calling it scandalous would be to put it mildly.
Hands clasped behind his back and far too proud of himself, he shakes his head.
Her nervous smile grows. "This is the throne," she needlessly points out. "Only the king can sit here. I am not the king."
Gesturing to the room at large, he points out, "There is no one around." He leans in close, smugness pulling at his lips. "And I won't tell anyone."
Taking a moment, she glances up and down the hall a few times, mollified in seeing that it is indeed empty. However, not entirely satisfied, she uses the astral plane for a larger search radius, finding no one in the surrounding corridors either.
Filled to the brim with nervous energy, she concedes, ensuring that it will be "just for a few seconds" before plopping down on the very edge of the most exclusive piece of furniture in the realm—the universe, more likely. Her gaze flits around a room she has been in thousands of times but never seen from this perspective. She allows herself to scoot back a bit and set her elbow on the arm of the throne.
"So, what are you thinking about," Loki asks, drawing her attention back to him. He is smiling fondly down at her.
"Peace," she cheekily responds, hand under her chin. "Prosperity. All that good stuff."
He makes an appreciative noise. "How admirable."
She hums in agreement. "What about you? What occupies your thoughts when you sit here?"
Mock-contemplative, he walks to the other side of the throne. "Plots," he prattles off. "Evil schemes. The like."
"That is certainly fitting of the leader of an imperialist kingdom," she remarks.
He gives an impudent shrug. "I like to think so."
Giggling, she leans further back, shoulders almost touching the back of the throne, though she gasps and vaults up when she hears a far-off noise from one of the corridors that leads into the hall. Standing, she is toe-to-toe with Loki, whose brow has ridden in surprise at her sudden presence right under his nose.
"Relax," he tells her, laughing.
Glancing around the room, she is relieved to find that it has remained vacant but for them. "Easy for you to say," she grumbles, still on-edge.
"Most things are," he concurs. His voice retains its joking lilt in an attempt to break the tension.
It works. Mouth curling in a reluctant smile, she snaps her eyes up to his, which she notices are much closer than she had originally thought. All of him is much closer than she had originally thought. His lips, for instance, are right there, not too far from her own. She imagines it would not be so unreasonable for her to drift forward, just a tad.
Not unreasonable, at all, she thinks as his eyes drop to her mouth, as well. Slowly, she leans in to do something she has been fantasizing about for well over thirty years now.
Her upper lip is just barely brushing his bottom one when someone calls her name rather loudly. Startled, she snaps abruptly backward, catching Loki's disappointed expression in her periphery as she turns to see whoever it was.
Pontus is standing opposite to them at the end of the hall, body clad in armor and looking relatively relaxed for the Hel he must know she is about to rain down upon him. He gives a little wave, and she hopes he can see her glare from this distance.
Her gaze softens as she turns her attention back to Loki, who looks just as resigned as she feels. She sighs, accepting that there is no salvaging the moment. "I should probably retire for the evening."
"Yes," he agrees, though it is what neither of them want him to say. "I had a lovely time."
She is quick to respond, laying her hand on his arm. "As did I." For a second, she almost forgets Pontus is there, leaning into Loki again.
"Sigyn," Pontus calls again, and oh, she is going to maim him for sure.
She tells Loki as much. "I have to go kill Pontus right now, so I will see you later. Tomorrow, perhaps?" She puts as much nonchalance into her question as she can so as to not seem too presumptuous.
"Are you not working tomorrow," he inquires, sounding very nonchalant, as well.
Taking a few steps down from the throne, she tells him, quite casually, "No. I am free, as it were."
"Interesting," he comments, nodding. "Though I am afraid that I am quite busy tomorrow."
Her brow raises playfully. "Oh, alright, so you ask me if I'm free, but you—"
"Sigyn," sharply shouts Pontus.
"For fuck's sake," she seethes, giving Loki one last apologetic look before heading toward the most irritating person in existence. Once she is close enough, Pontus begins walking away as a signal for her to follow. She gives him a firm shove when she catches up to him. "What the fuck is your problem, man?"
"Sorry," he says, not sounding apologetic in the least. "Had to be done."
Sigyn vehemently disagrees.
"I need to take a piss," Gulbrand informs Sigyn as the two of them stand guard outside of Odin's chambers.
Largely unconcerned, she rolls her eyes. "There is no need for an announcement."
Sigyn had not been scheduled to work at all today as something of a treat for having worked two days straight following the Jotun attack. However, just over two hours ago, Colborn had stopped by her house with an urgent request that she cover an ill co-worker's night shift. Ever dutiful, she had agreed, and now here she is. When she had started her—well, Teppo's—shift, she had been disappointed to see Gulbrand standing to the right of Odin's door, not looking forward to spending the night with him in the slightest. They have only been standing here for twenty minutes, and already she mourns the short-lived silence.
Gulbrand departs from his station against the wall, heading down the hall where she knows the closest bathroom to be.
"You are not on break. You cannot abandon your post," she calls after him, brow furrowed in dismay.
Half-turning back to glare at her, he replies, "I take no orders from you, woman."
Sigyn scoffs. Typical of a man to half-ass his job but still think he is inherently better at it than a woman. "You better hope a Jotun doesn't show up while you're gone!"
Loki shows up a minute later.
He had been hurrying down the hall at a conspicuously fast pace before spotting her and freezing in place. Sigyn doesn't know whether or not she should feel offended at how horrified he appears at seeing her.
"What are you doing here," he blusters, rushing over whilst casting a look over his shoulder.
In the back of her mind, she notices the temperature in the hall drop, wondering if it is soft, faraway footsteps she hears. She gives him a confused smile. "I am guarding the queen?"
"You said you would not be working today," he accuses. Sigyn is stunned at the stark difference between his disposition today and the night before.
"Uh, I—Yes." She tries to think back to saying that, flustered at the strangely angry urgency in his voice. "I was not supposed to be, but Commander Colborn asked me to cover someone else's shift at the last minute, so—"
He interrupts her, "Why did you not tell me?"
Her composure breaks. "Why would I," she fires back, not appreciating his tone in the least. "I go on one date with you and suddenly have to keep you appraised of my whereabouts?" Distractedly, she resists the urge to rub her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to ward off some of the stiffness from the sudden frigidness in the air.
Something seems to dawn on him, and he quickly turns repentant. "No, of course, not. I'm sorry, but I—" His eyes once again dart down the hall whence he came earlier. "Come with me."
"What," she asks, concerned and utterly confused at this point. "Where? Why?"
"To my rooms," he says, eyes imploring as they bore into hers. "I need to show you something."
She lets a puff of air pass her lips, bemused and frankly, a little annoyed. "I am on duty."
He ignores her declination, tone turning desperate. "Please."
She gives a full sigh this time, shaking her head. "Alright," she acquiesces, making a copy of herself.
Fidgety and for whatever reason even more frantic, he objects, "No, no. Real-you. Come on." He takes her arm and tugs, but she does not move.
Frowning, she wrenches her arm out of his grasp and dissipates her copy. "Your Highness, I cannot leave my post. Perhaps when the Major Gulbrand returns—"
The footsteps are loud enough now that Sigyn is certain she had heard them earlier, too. Loki reacts to them, as well. His face pinches up with anxiety. It is an expression Sigyn has only seen once before, the night of Norval's attack on the queen. "You will come with me now. That is an order. I am your king."
Nearly recoiling in shock, she levels him with an affronted look. "You are prince regent."
Her breath is visible in the air, though oddly enough, she notices that Loki's is not. Lips drawing into a tense line, he stares her down, as though trying to will her into acquiescence. She returns the gesture. The creeping chill in the hall settles in her bones, along with a terrible, inconceivable thought.
A few seconds pass with neither of them moving and the cold only growing further. Her body is racked with a harsh shudder. Frost grows on the walls and floor. The terrible thought turns conceivable—plausible, even. "What are you doing," she whispers, praying her instinct is wrong.
Loki, just as softly, says, "You know what I'm doing."
Staring turns into glaring. She cannot remember the last time she felt so lost as for what to do or how to feel. At least, that is what she would like to think. In reality, she knows she has to do her job, which he knows, too. She has sworn on her life and what little honor with which she was born that she would protect the queen at any cost. That oath was made in the same spirit as the one Loki must have sworn just days prior when he took on the mantle of prince regent—to protect the realm. He has betrayed that oath. He has betrayed her.
"You know," she replies in a deceptively conversational tone, though neither of them buys it. "Your friends warned me of your treachery."
Loki's eyes flash with barely suppressed rage.
Sigyn, who had been slowly moving the butt of her spear back in hopes that it would make contact with the door, feels it touch instead to the end of Gungnir, the magical staff belonging to the king of Asgard, a man not beside her but very much in peril just beyond her reach. Her eyes close in defeat, knowing that Loki is not going to let her strike the door thrice in quick succession, a signal that would make the occupants of the room behind it aware of the fast-coming danger.
When she opens her eyes again, she is peering into Loki's, which hold only a little more fury than they had when she had closed hers. "You look awfully angry," she tells him, chin up. "I do hope it is not because of me."
She strikes first, as is always her prerogative, hefting up her spear in a flash and ramming its side in between his ribs. Though the hit is not hard enough to bruise him, he stumbles back, raising Gungnir as he does. He turns it in his hands, trying to poke the end of it under her arms in what she thinks is an attempt to pry her weapon from her hands. Rather, he wants her away from the door. Gungnir catches on her wrist, and Loki yanks. She is flung a few feet to the side, managing to right herself fairly quickly, but not enough so that she is ready when he advances on her and delivers a blow from above, though she does manage to catch it. With her face, that is.
Now, it is her turn to stumble back, and for some reason, Loki lets her without interruption. Her nose throbs painfully, and her hand comes beneath it to stop the flow of blood. She begins to sob.
Immediately, Loki steps forward. He does not strike her again—as he should if he truly wants to win this fight and have the Jotuns slaughter his parents. Instead, he makes a soft, comforting sound most uncharacteristic of him and reaches out a hand, leaving Gungnir hanging almost limp at his side, blade pointed down.
Once he is close enough, she gives a little hop, kicking out with her right leg. Her foot lands on the center of his chest, and a fraction of a second later, he lands on the ground roughly twelve feet away. His back slides along the floor until it is fifteen feet, breaking up the ice that had grown there.
Her voice comes out in a laugh nastier than she would have previously thought herself capable. "So much for not being able to trick a trickster, hm?"
"You're bleeding," he exclaims, arm arching out as he pushes himself up.
She lies, "It doesn't hurt!"
His expression turns hard, the way she has seen countless men's turn in the heat of battle. "I must say," he quips as he rises to his feet, shaking off ice shards and whatever dust he may have accumulated whilst she was quite literally wiping the floor with him. "I quite like this shade on you."
"Oh, this angry red one I'm wearing," she returns, taking the time to leisurely step over and knock on the door once, twice, and thrice. A cold breeze runs along the back of her neck. The Jotuns are getting closer. She hasn't much time. "Why don't you come closer? Get a good look at it."
His chest expands as he heaves a deep breath, preparing to charge. "I think I will."
Her spear shifts into a sword as he nears, and it meets Gungnir in the air above their heads when he reaches her. Her blade slides along the long edge of his weapon, incapable of damaging its surface. Once they are no longer locking horns—metaphorically, of course, their helmets had not quite been touching—she swings again, blade pointed towards his middle. He parries, and they trade blows back and forth.
The frost has made its way to the ceiling.
Breath coming out fast and heavy, Sigyn finds herself falling behind in the fight, exhaustion creeping up on her. Loki is slowly but steadily forcing her farther down the hall from the king's rooms, but there is little she can do to change that. Once they have made it all the way to the window at the end of the corridor, he presses Gungnir down overhead, teeth gritted in effort. Her sword is raised to meet the enchanted spear, but with both hands on the hilt, she finds herself losing traction along the slippery ice beneath her feet. She moves her left hand to the flat end of the blade, pushing back with renewed force. Loki shifts imperceptibly, unimpeded by the floor's slickness, and the edge of her sword digs into her palm. She reels back, hissing in pain, and soon finds herself sprawled along the floor after he twists Gungnir in his grip and smacks her on the leg with it.
He holds Gungnir to her chest, the sharp, lethal end less than an inch from piercing her sternum. He is not breathing nearly as laboriously as she is, and there is a smug tilt to his lips. He thinks the fight is over.
Sigyn is not so sure, looking between the point of a spear far too close for comfort and Loki's eyes, considering her next move. Abruptly springing upward, she advances on him, forcing her mind to ignore the very real, looming threat of his weapon, which is still very close—
Loki pulls his arm back as fast as he possibly can, almost flinging Gungnir away in his haste. The opening allows her to duck low and kick out his legs. He falls backward onto his rear, his father's spear leaving his grasp and skittering along the icy floor until it hits the wall. To prevent him from simply getting back up, she climbs over him and straddles his chest.
Mouth agape, he stares up at her in shock and indignation. "What were you thinking? I could've killed you!"
Nearly out of breath, she ignores his words completely. "You know, I have always found sparring with you deeply arousing."
Loki is flabbergasted, his eyes bugging out a little. "What?"
Sigyn continues, one finger trailing down his chest without actually making contact in a ghost of a touch. "Sitting astride you like this," she leans down, places her hands just over his wrists. "Feeling your panting breath on my cheek."
"Why are you telling me this," he whispers, matching her voice in its barely-audible volume.
A devilish smile takes over her face. "To distract you."
Loki reels back as far as he can whilst lying supine on the floor, face contorting in further bewilderment. Almost experimentally, he waves his hand toward her middle, only half-surprised when his arm goes through her, and she vanishes in a shimmer of pink.
Real Sigyn is dashing back down the hall to her post, nearly there when she hears something whizzing toward her. She skids to a halt just in time for Gungnir to skim over the front of her armor and embed itself into the wall next to her torso. Gasping for breath, she slumps back against the wall as Loki waltzes into view. Gungnir glistens green next to her, disappearing from where it is wedged in the wall and reappearing next to Loki. She glances down at her chest plate, strangely dismayed to find it is without a scratch. "Damn it," she curses, having stopped for nothing.
"Enough fighting, Sigyn," he calls, standing roughly ten feet from her. "You cannot defeat me. The Kvilla has weakened you greatly."
Tiredness suddenly all but forgotten, his words brush up against something deep in her mind. "The Kvilla," she repeats, not quite mindlessly. Her eyes flit about the hall as she realizes something, something so absurd that it must be true.
"What," he asks, as though prompting her.
"The Kvilla," she repeats again, tone firm and sure. "You were in my room with me for hours, breathing the same air. I touched you. You should have it." She looks around them, taking in all the ice on the ground and the frost in the air. "You don't look cold."
He stands almost imperceptibly straighter, not liking—but knowing—where this conversation is going. "So, what?"
"So," she says, carefully. "Last night, you asked me what I thought of Jotuns." She pauses meaningfully. "I have an answer for you now."
Sigyn only manages half a step forward despite not really having a plan of attack—if attacking had indeed been her intention, however subconscious—when Loki is summoning into his hands the Casket of Ancient Winters from nowhere and blasting her back against the wall. Ice piles around her until all that is free is her head, part of her neck, and one of her feet, ankle not included.
Having closed her eyes during the onslaught of ice, she pries them open now, her eyelids having stuck together and grown heavy with tiny icicles hanging from her lashes. Loki stalks up to her, still manifestly angry, though with a tinge of something else she cannot quite identify. Upon reaching her, he places his hand—which is blue—over her mouth, much to her displeasure. After that, he pays her little mind, quietly turning his ear down the hall so as to better hear his co-conspirators, who are clearly on the same floor as them now.
She tries shouting at him, but it comes out muffled, so she switches it up. You bastard!
You're the bastard, he returns, sparing half-a-second's glance up at her.
Further enraged, her mind seethes, You're despicable. I cannot believe—
The heavy footsteps come to a stop, and though the Jotuns are out of her line of sight, she knows them to be at the king's door—at her post. They rip the door open, and with her head turned as far as she can manage given the ice and Loki's fucking hand, she hears the beginning of a skirmish.
The queen shouts. A body hits the floor. Footsteps resume, uninterrupted.
Sigyn's entire body thrums with the fear she had been pushing down throughout her fight with Loki. Now, when it is arguably too late, her bones throb with a horrible, cold feeling, and her blood boils in her veins. She cannot decide the sensation on which to focus. It is only when Loki's hand drags along her lips as he pulls away that the panic fades into the back of her mind once more. Her nose burns, and she realizes she has been breathing too harshly through it.
"Wait here," he mumbles to her before striding down the hall and out of her view.
Like fuck I will, she assures herself, moving as much as possible under the ice. It gives very little, and she soon realizes that using sheer physical strength to free herself would take too long. Concentrating on the ice caging her in, she imagines it shattering until it does. The ice bursts outward, and she slides the short distance to the ground, ending up standing haphazardly on one foot. Her left arm remains stuck to the wall, leaving her unbalanced.
Light leaks out into the corridor along with the sound of two succinct blasts that she can only imagine originate from Gungnir, and her adrenaline flares again.
Too irritated and anxious to fuck around with telekinesis again, she elects to twist and pull her arm until it slips free, gaining about a thousand cuts and leaving her gauntlet behind. Thinking herself finally free from the wall, she makes to dash after Loki, but is once again impeded by ice. Scalp tingling painfully, she looks back to see her braid trapped underneath a cluster of ice. "Are you fucking kidding me," she shrieks, summoning a knife, shoving it into the plait, and twisting it around until she is loose.
She makes it to the king's room in time to hear Loki say, "—swear to you, Mother, that they will pay for what they have done today."
Loki and Frigga stand together in the middle of the room, surprisingly not engaged in a vicious fight to the death. The Jotuns are nowhere to be seen, likely having been decimated completely by Gungnir, which still rests in Loki's grip. Suffice it to say, Sigyn has stumbled upon a very different scene than that which she had imagined.
"Sigyn, dear," Frigga says, looking her over with concern. "Are you alright?" Sigyn can only imagine how she must look—panting in exertion, partially mangled arm dangling at her side, and fear written all over her face.
Entirely prepared to tell the truth, she opens her mouth to do just that, but then she doesn't. A few seconds pass, and still, she doesn't say anything. She just about swallows her tongue, rather, and wonders what it would be like to not say anything at all.
She knows—she knows—she should reveal Loki's treachery to his mother, but the situation no longer matches her expectations. Yes, he had clearly manufactured the new conflict with Jotunheim, but it had not been to kill his parents, as she had anticipated. So, why—
"Loki," Thor says as he arrives, looking as furious and disheveled as Sigyn feels.
Oh, right, she realizes. That's why.
Overjoyed at her eldest child's appearance, Frigga calls out his name, pushing past Sigyn to rush to his side and embrace him. "I knew you'd return to us."
Sigyn turns her head so as to keep an eye on Loki, both pleased and dismayed to find him backing away. Pleased because it takes him farther away from the queen, and dismayed because it leaves him closer to the king. Thor seems to take issue with this, as well, stepping around Frigga and following after his brother. In the meantime, Sigyn goes to guard Frigga, blocking her from interfering in anything that may take place between her sons.
The men pay them little mind. "Why don't you tell them," Thor taunts in an attempt to provoke Loki. "How you sent the Destroyer to kill our friends—to kill me."
"What," Frigga asks, aghast at the actions of the younger of her two sons.
He tried to kill Haldana, Sigyn infers, suddenly worried for her sister. What if she's injured, or worse?
Loki and Thor move to opposite sides of their sleeping father's bed, taking up lazy fighting stances at either side of Odin's head. Loki feigns innocence. "Well, I must have been enforcing Father's last command."
"You're a talented liar, Brother," Thor declares. If he were a crueler person, Sigyn imagines he would be sneering. "Always have been."
Loki holds one hand to his chest, mock-obliged. He says, "It's good to have you back. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to destroy Jotunheim," and promptly shoots Thor through the castle wall.
Sigyn and Frigga gasp in unison as the golden wall crumbles behind Thor and he tumbles from the building, red cape billowing around him. Frigga pushes against her in an effort to get to her son, but Sigyn, still partly numb with shock, pushes her back.
Loki turns to leave, prompting Sigyn to spring into action, however belatedly, and she moves to intercept him. "Oh-ho," she laughs, though nothing is funny. "You are not going anywhere." Her feet rest a shoulder's width apart, and the hilts of two daggers slide into her palms from thin air, blades pointed downward in a loose but formidable fighting stance.
In over thirteen-hundred years, Sigyn has only killed once. She exercises restraint in each and every fight, perhaps to the point of excess. It is only when her usual methods—constraining an adversary, knocking them unconscious, or simply intimidating them until they willingly surrender—fail that she kicks it up a notch. Loki will not go down easily, and she has been too weakened by the Kvilla to fight him at length a second time.
For telepaths, mental strength is just as—if not more—important than physical strength. Before Loki had taught her how to properly utilize her magic, she had developed her telepathic and telekinetic skills fairly well on her own. That is not to say she was very good at it at the time, but she'd had a natural talent, whereas most magically-inclined people cannot use telepathy—let alone telekinesis—without instruction first.
He takes a cautious step forward, but she forces his limbs to disobey him before he can take another. Crumpling to the ground, he drops Gungnir and brings his hands up to clutch the sides of his head. His eyes are crossed, trying to focus on something—anything—but unable to do so. It looks more painful than it is, she knows. After all, it is all in his head, and all she is doing is pushing confusion into his mind, leaving him terribly disoriented. She does not feel bad, or so she privately assures herself. She is simply taking the necessary measures to ensure his compliance. It is not as though it actually hurts, and it will all be over the moment she has him restr—
Some sort of garbled, high-pitched noise escapes Sigyn as she, too, collapses at the foot of Odin's bed. She drops her daggers, deaf to the sound of them clanging against the floor because her brain is on fire, melting, disintegrating—
She knows she has lost her influence over Loki at this point, though she is unsure of much else, only that it is not him doing this to her. She thinks she feels someone tugging on her shoulder—whether it's her physical or astral form—but she isn't sure because she can no longer fucking see.
Barely, through the haze, she manages to resist her faceless attacker to the point that she can almost feel the cool ground beneath her, but all sensation escapes her when she pushes back hard enough to recognize who it is, shock overcoming her ability to resist.
Frigga, she realizes as the world behind her eyes turns from black to colorless.
Sigyn wakes from her forced slumber the moment Loki dies, the queen far too heartbroken to pay mind to anything else.