A ripple of quiet hushes out from the arch through which they enter. The great feasting hall is already full of folk, from Aesir to Alfar and all races between. All classes, too; housecarls mingle freely and joyously with the lords and warriors of Asgard this night, and Odin Allfather presides over all from his high seat. Giving Synne a smile meant as much to reassure himself as her, Loki wends his way to kneel at his father's feet. His father's face is solemn in acknowledgement, but he can see that one eye widen as Odin takes in Synne's presence at his side.
The three give each other grave nods, and Loki is certain he sees his father's good eye shiver in a subtle wink. He gives a flicker of his own eyes in return and sweeps his lady into the crowd. His mother will be about somewhere, unobtrusively attending to everyone's needs, but they have a greater chance finding her by luck as by purpose. In truth, he isn't sure he wants to encounter anyone he knows tonight, though it's hardly likely he will avoid them all. Rumour and gossip will fly, now that he has appeared at a formal function with Synne, but he doesn't want to do anything to fuel those rumours himself.
Not tonight.
Volstagg is, as expected, by the tables laden with food, and thus easy to avoid. He does not expect to see Hogun this night; the foreigner honours Winternight with vigil over merriment. Synne tugs on his arm, gently, and tips her head toward one of the alcoves. She puts her lips to his ear to say, "Shall you like to sit near the skalds? If you've never heard it before, the drunken poetry contests tonight are something to behold." A little laugh threads her tone.
"You hadn't rather dance?" Loki asks; fully half the hall is taken with dancers and musicians and he knows Synne loves both. Of course, she knows he loves poetry, mostly nidhvisur composed on the spot. They grin at each other.
"We've time for both," she says comfortably. "And I don't want to dance so early in the night; I'll be too tired to see the night through to dawn. Come, Loki." He allows her to pull him through the room; it's just as well, since he's already seen Thor, Sif, and Fandral among the dancers.
The cluster of skalds the pair joins don't bat an eye at the two of them together. Plied with mead, Loki allows himself to be drawn into first one contest, then another, though he steadfastly refuses to compose any mansongr this night, darting glances at Synne and trying not to blush like a boy. She, though unskilled at nidhvisur, nevertheless spins a few kenning that have the group roaring with laughter, and with her aid Loki is able to defeat the most arrogant of the skalds, Eyvindr, with nidhvisur.
As Eyvindr slinks off in defeat, seeking wine to soothe his wounded ego, the mood shifts, and while Loki provides his lady with tidbits from the feast-tables, Sigvatr the Eldest regales them all with the saga of Odin's defeat of Surtur the Flame Giant. He thinks he may never have had such a good time on Winternight in his life.
Synne sits nestled up against Loki, clasped in the circle of his arms, and tips her head back to smile at him. He likes the view, over her head and down to the swell of her breasts, pale against the dark fabric of her gown. She reaches one hand up to caress his face and says softly, "Shall we dance now?"
It doesn't even take half a second for him to be on his feet and pulling her into his arms; hand-in-hand they move toward the dancers. Wine and mead, ale and beer have been flowing, and half the early dancers have been forced to sit down lest they fall down. This leaves greater space for those of higher skill, and the musicians are playing to that skill with songs high and fast. Synne hurls herself into their midst, catching her skirts up in both hands and laughing gleefully.
Loki folds his arms and finds a convenient pillar to lean against, the better to enjoy Synne's energetic dancing. He's not alone there long, though, before Thor and Fandral appear to either side of him. Fandral has a predatory expression, eyeing the women dancing. Loki wonders if he realises he's licking his lips. It's possible he ought to fill Fandral's bed with snakes on principle.
The three watch in some silence, though Loki's enjoyment is spoilt waiting for his brother to speak. He tries not to notice where Fandral is looking. At last, Thor clears his throat. "I hear you are escorting a young maiden this year, brother," he says, unwontedly tactful.
Loki just nods his head. Fandral rubs his hands together, starting to smile. "I'll wager I can pick out the very one."
Loki starts to speak then, but Thor speaks first. "Done," he booms jovially. "What is your stake?"
"One of those wolfhound pups you've been admiring," Fandral counters. "And yours?" Thor holds out one of his gold armbands.
Loki frowns. "You would wager over the identity of my lady?"
Fandral tosses them both a wink and slips into the crowd of dancers. Thor responds, "I wager on Fandral's knowledge of you, brother! He does not know you as I do, and he will fail."
Loki smiles slowly. "So you think you already know, brother? Will you wager with me?"
"Hah!" Thor laughs, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Will you give me a dance with her if I am right?"
"With a will," Loki says, confident now. There is no way his brother can know, for he is not nearly observant enough.
Thor's face takes on the slight frown he wears when he is pondering something, and his eyes begin to scan the dancers. Fandral has vanished completely amongst the women, and Loki's actually not sure he's going to come back at all, but his gaze lights on Synne and he decides he doesn't care. She is spinning madly, her skirts flaring around her slim body and her head thrown back. The music shifts, and at once her feet are moving swiftly, tapping out patterns among the beat.
Thor is surprisingly quiet when he wants to be, and just now his voice is nearly inaudible in Loki's ear. "Your lady wears a gown like a starry night, and her hair is fair as the dawn. She dances like the goddess she is called and her name is the sun she outshines." Loki turns, gaping, at his brother, whose grin is huge and very smug indeed. "I take it from your expression that I am right," he finishes, and clasps Loki's arm. "Well done. Well done indeed, brother."
Loki blinks, and closes his mouth. It is all he can do. Who is this creature, and what has happened to his brash brother?
"Do you let me know if Fandral guesses aright," Thor continues. "I'll have that dance in the new day. I'm off for now." Before Loki can muster any answer whatsoever, his golden brother is lost amongst the crowd of folk, and a change in the music catches his ear once more. The chords are those of a women's dance, and soon enough Fandral comes stumbling back out of the dancers, slightly mussed and more disgruntled.
"Where is Thor?" he demands of Loki. Loki smiles at him, cool and amused and hiding his discomposure behind his favourite mask.
"I do not know," he replies. "He bid me tell him the outcome of your wager, and left. Have you a guess to make, Fandral, or did the ladies merely throw you out of the dance?" He tips his head at the circles of women, holding hands and winding amongst each other. He schools his expression hard as Synne's name is called amid the music and giggles, and keeps his eyes fixed on Fandral.
The other man's mouth is pursed tight, eyes narrowed. "I have not," he snaps, and instantly moderates his tone. "Never fear, Loki, I shan't lose to your brother. He can't possibly imagine what men like us desire in a woman, eh?"
Loki just wishes Fandral would shut up now, and that he had a better vantage point, for the cheering of the women has reached such a pitch that he is sure whatever Synne is doing, there at the centre of the dance, must be amazing. Perhaps he could ask a private performance, later? He allows himself to arch an eyebrow at Fandral's remark derisively. 'Men like us,' indeed. The only person he wants less to be like is his own brother, sometimes.
At last, at last, the music falls apart in a flourish of pipes, and Loki damns Fandral's presence momentarily. Then it stops mattering, because Synne emerges from the dispersing dancers and clings to his arm, breathing hard, and it is hugely, absurdly, gratifying to see Fandral's eyes nearly pop out of his head. Loki ignores the swashbuckler, though, in favour of supporting Synne to a bench and helping her stroke her hair back into some sort of order.
She, in turn, has eyes only for him, and does not even seem to notice Fandral's stare. Her colour is high from exertion, and Loki finds himself holding off a desperate wish to conceal them both and simply slip her back to his rooms, where he can reward her as she deserves. Alas, his sense of responsibility rears its head, and Fandral is plucking at his arm. He rounds on the other man.
"What? Can you not see I am attending to a lady?" He does not bother to keep his tone level, but Fandral barely notices.
"That's your lady? Synne of the Vanir?" Fandral is clearly in deep shock.
Loki grips his arms. "Get hold of yourself, man."
"Loki, she's turned down more men than I have had women! She's never said yes to anyone! Completely untouchable!" Fandral gasps out. Loki refuses to glance over his shoulder. He will not.
'Never said yes to anyone'?
"No wonder you're called the Silver-tongue."
"Yes. I am," Loki manages to reply, and turns away, "Please excuse me." Taking a quick step, he kneels at Synne's feet, seizing her hand and kissing it fiercely.
She laughs. "What was that for?"
"For that you are you," he says, and kisses it again.
It is nearly midnight on this, the longest night of the year. Many of the torches and candles have been let to burn out, and the great feasting hall is dimmer, now, and quieter. Asgard does not fear the dark, but there is always that deep, atavistic moment within, wondering if the light will return, and so conversations run low, voices and music soften, as the hour nears midnight.
Loki and Synne are dancing slowly, to some sweet sad thing the musician claims came from a place far from the Nine Realms. There are only a few other couples, and Loki sees with mild surprise one of them is Sif, with Thor. Fleetingly, he can catch glimpses of their reflection in the mirrors that line the hall's far end; Synne's hair glimmers in the dim light against his black and green like fallen stars. He holds her possessively close, pressing their bodies together.
He truly does not want to give her up to Thor, for the promised dance in the new day. His brother is golden, and charming, and everything he is not; despite the flush of amazement from Fandral's words earlier, Loki does not believe his hold on Synne is very strong. If someone better comes along, she will surely leave him. He's not sure he could bear that. Especially not if the someone is his everlasting brother. It would be yet another thing Thor has, unwittingly, taken from him.
And how in the Nine Realms could Thor not be seen as better than he?
It hurts him, these thoughts. He loves his brother, and envies him, and the tangle of the two emotions is a horrid knot in his mind. Synne makes a small sound, and Loki becomes aware he is pressing her hand wretchedly tight. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he mutters, and she rests her head on his shoulder as a sign of forgiveness.
"Tell me?" she asks, and he shakes his head slightly.
"Not now."
The music slips to a close, at the hour of midnight, and the two pause as all the lights in the great hall are extinguished. Only starlight gilds the room, now, seeping in from outside, small and chill. With the light goes the sound, as the folk fall silent and still. They clasp each other's hand, in the dark and the quiet, and for half a hundred heartbeats it is as if there is no world, there is nothing, save the feel of their two hands together.
And then the slash of light, of the spear Gungnir, splits the hall and all the torches and lamps roar back to life at the touch of it, and the feasting hall erupts into cheers and shouting; Thor leads the toast to the new day and the return of the light and lastly to Odin Allfather. The music and dancing begin again, more raucous than before; a streaming shouting wild celebration of life renewed and returning. Loki turns his back on it all and tugs Synne to an alcove near the arch by which they'd entered, long hours ago.
There he proceeds, for no particular clear reason, to kiss her until they are both reeling from it, ravishing her mouth with his tongue and nipping until her lips are apple-red.
Of course, this is precisely the moment when Frigga appears. His mother's smile is tolerant, amused, faintly wicked. That's not a thing he ever wanted to know about his mother, actually.
"Have you tamed my wild son, then?" she asks of Synne.
Demurely, the Vanr girl replies, "If he was tame I wouldn't love him." Loki tries not to choke.
"You've learnt that wisdom already."
"Or ever I left my own mother's side, Lady Frigga. I hold with an open hand."
"Do you not hurt him, Synne," Frigga admonishes.
Affronted, Loki exclaims, "Mother!"
She doesn't even spare a glance at him.
Synne lays a hand on his shoulder."I wouldn't."
"See that you don't." And the queen is gone, slipped back into the crowd. Loki blinks twice, hard, and raises an eyebrow at Synne.
"Are women cryptic by accident, or do you do it to annoy us poor men?"
"Don't even pretend you didn't understand that," she says.
He shrugs, uncomfortable admitting to it. "You've impressed all my family, it seems. Thor won a dance with you off me, earlier tonight. He'll come to claim it soon."
"By what right do you wager me so easily?" she asks, but he can see she's teasing.
He responds, "The right of a lover to flaunt his partner?" and gains a hair-pulling for his pains.
"Don't be more absurd than you have to be." She closes her eyes for a long moment, and Loki takes the opportunity to admire the pale curl of eyelashes against cheekbones, and to press gentle kisses to her eyebrows.
"Are you tired, Synne? We don't have to stay. Thor will understand if you cry off. So will I."
"I shan't forfeit your honour in that wager," she smiles at him. "And I'd like to see the dawnlight with you. But perhaps, from one of the little balconies here,after I give your brother his dance?"
He can't stop the way he flinches at her phrasing, or the way his face freezes up. He can't look at her, either, until she takes his face in her hands and forces him to. "Stop that. It's just one dance, soon ended. Will you go and wait for me? Or will you watch?"
"I had rather watch. Thor may try to take liberties with you, but not if my eye is on him while he would do so." In truth, Loki would far rather take his leave of the hall entirely, but Synne has neatly closed off his escape; he won't leave her here. He also doesn't really want to watch his brother dancing with his Synne, either; no doubt Thor will choose one of the more energetic dances, at which Synne excels, and he really can't think which will hurt the more: seeing her graceful body propelled through the figures by Thor's strength, or merely knowing of it without looking.
"I wish you would not mistrust your brother so," she murmurs, and is gone.