Sigyn is in Paris. She has not been home in years.
And she cannot say when she stopped thinking of her dear villa in Asgard as "home" and instead started thinking of the Embassy in New York. Perhaps because that's where her heart lies. With her children and… Their father.
She had left because she did not trust her own strength. Because she caught a glimpse of a look in Loki's eyes that was swiftly hidden. It was a look of longing and regret and other emotions far too old for his young self. So she ran. Alone. Her sons were nearly grown and would do better staying with their uncle and teachers and friends that they had come to love.
She had no choice. Her husband was dead. The young prince's resemblance in appearance and behavior did not change the fact was that he was a different person. A person who deserved the chance to live his own life without her dreary, reproachful shadow haunting him.
Besides, it was important that she establish solid relations with the other nations in the world, lest they start to believe the gods favored the United States as much as the United States believed they were favored by the gods.
It was a long, grueling process that took her to every inch of the realm. But when it happens she is in Paris.
She is dancing with a stranger. Central Europe has proven frustrating in general, but she enjoys some small victories in Paris and so rewards herself with music and strong drinks and dancing with a stranger.
The man is tall and lean and moves gracefully. If she closes her eyes and ignores the fact that his hands are far too warm and he smells like smoke and wine and cologne and not him. He had smelled of ice and magic and the wild places he had traveled and what mortal could hope to compare?
This is a mistake, she realizes. She cannot maintain the clever banter and flirty looks. All she feels for this man is contempt. She excuses herself and goes outside for a cigarette
The balcony affords a splendid view of the city, and she smokes in peace, her hands shaking a little as she tries to train her thoughts away from the things she has lost. It would be better if Thor had just let him stay dead. Then she could have moved on. Instead of lingering in the twilight of grief, watching the life she had loved repeat itself without her.
Instead of calming, her hands begin to shake harder. She tries to steady her breathing, will herself to be calm like she always can. But it just gets worse. She can hear a rumbling cacophony. Crashing stones and rushing water. The smell of fire. The heat from the flames on her hands and face and then she is engulfed in a great, blinding light.
She cries out once before collapsing.