I do not have long to wait; Loki stalks into the room, stripping his gloves off and slapping them down. From the sound of things, he has just come from the training rings, so his high temper is no surprise. I do not stir, hidden behind the settle's high back and still considering my spell. He will seek me out when he is ready.
I hear various pieces of armour hitting the floor, discarded like so many bones; the crackle of sinews as he stretches. He steps around and slumps into the bench near me, dark hair lank with sweat and face marked with dirt. Silence overtakes the rooms. It's a comfortable silence, composed of equal parts familiarity and exhaustion. I can hear his breathing slow. I flick my gaze to him, watching under the shadow of my lashes.
"Why will they not leave me be?" he says at last, his fingers linking and unlinking restlessly.
"Tell me," I murmur.
Loki sighs. "They want to know about you."
My surprise must be obvious, for he looks at me and shakes his head. "You are mine. I don't want anyone else intruding." As his hands slide over his mouth, he finishes, muffled, "Or taking you away from me."
I watch quietly.
"Fandral thinks you are a common strumpet, available to anyone."
A snicker spills out of me. "No strumpet could ever catch your eye, Loki."
"Very kind, I'm sure," he says dismissively. "I want ... you deserve ... he should not think of you so!" he blazes, fumbling for words. "If I tell them who you are, they will think less of you. A lady of Asgard should not be used so."
"I am of the Vanir, and we do not hold these mores," I remind him. "What is it to me if the court's most notorious lady-killer thinks me wanton? No one for whom I care is like to disapprove." I lean forward, trying to catch his eyes. "Think what fun we could have with Fandral."
"I would not lie with him!" Loki snaps. "Nor should you."
I grin. "Certainly not, but how amusing to let him think so."
"And ... my mother?" he says slowly, but I can see him beginning to warm to the idea.
"Do you truly think your mother would think less of either of us for finding happiness?"
His answer is wry. "Not when you phrase it so."
"Let it be simple," I say, rising to cross and take his hands. "I shall appear on your arm on Winternight. Let all make of that what they will."
"How can I resist when you ask so sweetly?" He lifts my hands to his mouth and bestows a kiss on each finger.
"Truly, Loki, my only care in this is for you. You wished us private, and so we were." I shrug. "Had you rather I spoke to Fandral myself?"
"No!" He nearly crushes my hands in his. "No," he continues more calmly. "You are wise, my Synne, to suggest Winternight. We will go, together, and outshine them all."
'Even my brother,' he carefully does not say, but I can hear it anyway.
Letting go my hands, Loki reaches out to the floating strands of hair surrounding me. "This is nice. Very elegant. It is a spell?"
"A small shapeshift," I reply. He smiles fondly and presses his cheek to my hips. I would ruffle his hair, but not before he bathes. I tell him so, and he laughs, getting to his feet.
"Come with me," Loki demands.
"You don't need my help." But I laugh along with him, and smile into his eyes for one still happy moment, and then let myself be tugged to the bathing-room. I make him draw his own bath, setting out towels and soap and brushes while he disrobes. There are bruises starting to show along his ribs, but I do not speak; I know how he came by them, and why, and that there is nothing I can do or say to make a difference there.
Some things, Loki will not hear, even from me. It is ... frustrating.
Perhaps that will change with Winternight.
He throws me a sidelong glance as he slips into the water, all long limbs and smooth muscle. My heart beats a little faster, my breath catches in my mouth. Ducking his head under the surface, the water turns dark hair into silky fingers tracing his shoulders. Glittering drops chase down his face as he comes up, flicking his hair back and showering me with the spray. I squeak indignantly.
A sinuous movement of his hands turns the water spotting my dress into tiny flower petals, and I blow him a kiss, with a little breeze that swirls the petals around him. He catches one, and it turns back into a droplet of water.
"Wash my hair," he begs, and I choose to stop resisting, kneeling by the rim of the bath and putting my hands into his wet hair. I can feel him tremble faintly while I work the lather through the dark strands, my fingertips caressing his scalp. I push lightly at his shoulder and obediently he slides under the water, swirling the soap away. When he resurfaces, half his hair is over his face, and I giggle at the sight of one green eye framed by the wet locks.
"You're done," I say, touching the tip of his nose with one finger. He snaps at me, playfully, and I tap him again on the nose. "Up," I command, and he rises, sheeting water and gazing at me with heavy-lidded eyes. He looks every inch the god he is called.
I know all my love is in my face as I look at him.