Odin stares at the page. He had not realised that his son was ever in love with anyone at all. He had not thought to ask what he had been doing through the year he had been confined.
He remembers the day Loki died- the sky had been black. Loki asked for no last words, but bowed his head in silence, his eyes closed.
He wonders, for a fleeting moment, if he made the right decision. He wonders if Loki might have healed given enough time with Sigyn.
He wonders if there would have been grandchildren of his own and laughter in the halls, a romantic Loki caught with Sigyn curled together in window nooks reading to one another, flowers braided in her hair.
He stops himself. There are other pages to read and there is no use wondering when what is done is done and dead is dead.