He is more nervous than he can ever remember being before. What if Synne is wrong? What if they are both condemned, made the laughingstock of the court before all assembled? Winternight is not a small celebration. He could not bear it if his beautiful Synne were lowered in the eyes of his peers. The way they look at him, when they think he doesn't see, is bad enough.
He tries not to let it bother him, what the warrior-lords of high Asgard think of him; after all, they do not know his true worth. Yes, he is the younger son, able to be spared to ventures less honourable, more hazardous; yes, his natural talents are less brilliant than those of his brother. This is what he tells himself, in the shadowed watches of the night, when he is alone with the whispers in his mind.
Somehow it's never quite enough, to silence the awareness of being second-best, second son, less, less, always less. Nothing seems to be enough for that. He knows his own worth, he does, but how sweet to have those around him acknowledge it too! Thor may be the stronger on the field of combat, but he knows the superiority of his intellect over his brother's; why can no one else see it?
The mad injustice of it all, even in his own mind, makes him want to scream to the roots of Yggdrasil.
The appearance of Synne, tapping shyly at the entrance to his rooms in a way she hasn't done for years, definitively distracts him from such morbid thinking. She is beyond breathtaking, clad in some dark blue, half-transparent stuff aglitter with gold and silver, like the very night sky come to dance with him. Every elegant curve of her body is marked in graceful lines. Against the richness of the fabric her skin shimmers cream and her hair curls in lustrous spirals. Her throat and shoulders are bare of all adornment, rising out of the blue in queenly fashion.
Loki is completely unaware of his mouth dropping open until she crosses to stand before him and puts a finger under his chin. "Here's a rare sight, the Silver-tongue speechless for once," she teases, and he gulps, pulling his mouth shut with effort.
"Lady, you outshine the Tree and all its Nine Realms," he manages, and bows very low indeed over her hand. This is a Synne he has never seen before, and he feels wildly unworthy.
"Oh, Loki," he hears her say breathlessly, and catches the warmth of a blush flaming her face. "Please don't say such things; don't spin me pretty lies right now."
"Synne," he promises, "I have never, nor will I ever, lie to you. I swear it." He clasps her hand to his chest, gentle pressure against his formal black and green and gold. "Lie with you, though, oh yes," he mutters.
She grins, and in the smile he can see his impish Synne underneath all the elegance. "I, too, my prince," she returns, and their ease with each other sweeps away all his fears for the moment. "Shall we?" she asks, and tips her head to the door. He offers his arm, and she takes it. Polished surfaces near the doorway reflect back their image, shadows and light.