6k words! Jesus!

This is the wedding chapter, but the vows and rites aren't historically based as there's so little to go off on ancient norse wedding customs, so I pretty much just tried to do an Asgardian wedding that fits the feel and the culture.

No warnings for this chapter - without further ado, keep reading...

Three months. That is all the time you have to prepare.

In the first month you wake every day with a horrible jolt at the empty space beside you, but gradually your tears stop coming so often. You learn how to accept the reality of a world without Thor in it; your quarters become familiar to you, the black gowns become less jarring. Magni gets into the habit of attempting to pull himself up on sturdy little legs and stand. It is a consolation to you that he's learning; at almost a year old you had begun to worry about his development, although Eir assured you it was perfectly normal for children to do things at their own pace.

A great statue of Thor is erected along the public gallery in front of the palace. It soothes you more than it saddens you; people applaud the fine work and you can hear conversations reminiscing how about great a man he'd been. You grow to accept their condolences with genuine gratitude. Loki does not attend.

In the second month, you decide it best to start weaning Magni off your breast, though you are in no rush. But you don't want him to grow up overly attached to you and behind other children. You may miss your husband, but it will not stop you from being a mother - you will raise your son into a king his father would have been proud of. Nonetheless, despite the constant worry and supervision that needs to be done, it is a relief - a distraction from what is to come. You dismiss one of the nursemaids - three was truly too much, and you suspect that once Loki is your husband you would not have as many duties as you'd had previously and too much time.

You can't decide whether the thought irks you or not.

Something that has not become less shocking over the weeks is Loki sat at your side instead of Thor. It's wrong - deeply wrong, and during feast days you rush to finish as much of your meal as you can stomach so that you can leave the hall. He rarely speaks to you, and when he does he's cold and formal. You're glad of it.

Once, just once, he lays his hand against the small of your back. The gesture makes you flinch. You rise from the table and leave immediately.

By the third, summer is underway; the sky is bright and the grass is green, and you take Magni outside often to play with other children. Something about it makes you sad, but you force it down and carry on. Lorelai and mother have both stayed with you and you are ever-grateful for them. You begin to smile again, and Lorelai even makes you laugh once or twice. But you can see the toll it takes on your mother, and you know once you are remarried she will leave.

The thought fills you with unease. On the first day of the month Frigga comes to you with a team of seamstresses. They present rolls and rolls of fabrics in every material and colour; velvet and satin and lace, blue and white and pink. You don't particularly care. When you'd married Thor your gown had been cloth-of-gold stitched with pearls, and you'd worn dainty slippers. His tunic had been cloth-of-gold too, and you'd thought he was the finest man you had ever seen. Not once had he stopped smiling during the ceremony.

"Dearest?" Frigga's voice pulls you from your thoughts. "You really ought to pick something today, just to narrow it down." She doesn't say what she means - there is not long now. Bored, you examine the array. You pick a grey silk so light it's almost ivory.

The seamstress claps excitedly. "A wonderful choice!" Your lips thin at her enthusiasm. She shuffles through a few more pieces of material and pulls out a square of pale, spidery gold tulle. "May I suggest this as an overlay?"

"Fine," you snap.

She wavers only briefly before signing to her helpers and bowing to both you and Frigga. The team leave the room with hushed whispers. Once the doors close, Frigga turns to you. She is always kind, but she carries a newfound quietness now. You'd taken to inviting her to the gardens often, which she sometimes accepts, but she never stays long. Sometimes you think she is the only other person who truly feels Thor's loss.

"I'm sorry," you say to her.

She doesn't admonish you, only lays her hand over yours.

Your sour mood continues to build, and within a week you become so resentful that Lorelai tells you to get a hold of yourself. "I can't help it," you defend yourself, hurt. "This isn't a celebration, it's a death sentence. And I'm supposed to smile and chatter and tell everyone how happy I am? It's a sham."

One day you're on your way back from the nursery when a commotion draws your attention. Wandering to its source, you're confronted with the sight of Thor's chamber door wide open and a steady flow of workmen carrying out the furniture. Hesitantly, you step inside. Loki stands at a table in the centre of the room, pointing down at a large drawing alongside a stonemason. He glances up when you enter.

"What..." You take in the empty space. "What are you doing?"

The look he sends you is guarded. "These are my rooms now."

Your chest is tight the stonemason lifts a hammer. He swings it into the wall that connects the antechamber to the bedroom. The rock crumbles to the ground in clouds of white dust. You flinch. This had been Thor's room as long as you could remember - you had slept beside him almost every night here. The sight of Loki destroying that intimate, precious space and reforming it to suit himself turns your knuckles white. "But..."

"Yes?" Loki arches a brow at you.

The words come unsteadily, "This is Thor's room."

"Well he can hardly use it now, can he?"

You don't trust yourself to speak - instead you turn and slam the door.

The closer the wedding date draws, the more often Odin holds feasts. "To give the people something to look forward to," he tells you when you complain about the festivities. Sure enough, the people begin to warm to the idea. There are toasts aplenty and excited discussions, and you are questioned about everything; the dress, the cake, the season, the vows. While you answer them all politely, you cannot feign interest. It stings that they seem to have forgotten already whose wife you truly are. Loki is hounded less - it is evident that even with their good cheer the citizens are still wary of him.

"Are you looking forward, my lord?" one particularly brave man asks one night.

His answer is fluid and easy. "Very much so." You don't know why he bothers lying. You're almost finished with your plate when he speaks again, lowering his voice to an intimate level in your ear. "Father is considering combining the wedding with my coronation. What do you think?"

"Fine."

Loki tilts his head closer, so that his hair brushes against yours. "If you'd rather have a whole day, I can-"

You lean away from him, "I said it's fine."

His voice is sharp. "You could at least pretend to care."

"Don't tell me what to do," you warn him through gritted teeth.

"I wouldn't have to if you would just try to be happy."

You turn to him sharply, rage simmering in your veins. "Happy about what? You know full well I don't want to do this."

"Why not?" he demands. His eyes lock onto yours with his next words, "Is it really so terrible to be mine?"

"I will never be yours."

Loki's face goes bone white and there's a deafening screech as he shoves his chair back. He storms out. You lower the fork in your hand. It's shaking. The feasting hall is silent and blood rushes to your cheeks as you realise everyone is staring. Slowly, with as much grace as you can muster, you also rise and leave the hall.

Your feet get as far as the end of corridor when Odin's voice rings out. "Stop!" His words are furious. "Come with me; now."

Count to three. Breathe in, breathe out. You turn and follow him.

When you reach the solar Frigga and Loki are waiting. Frigga is seated. She's staring down at her hands blankly, as she so often does now. Odin paces in front of the fireplace and you stand with arms folded in silence. Your lip trembles and you bite it, hard. Finally Odin turns, and his voice is strained with barely-controlled anger. "What was that?" he spits. Your nails dig into your skin. "You're a prince, Loki - you should know better by now! Have you learned nothing!"

"Father I-"

"Be silent! And you," he jabs a finger at you, "should remember the deal we struck!"

"I don't care!" The words flood from your lips loudly and angrily; you can't do it, you can't stand a lifetime of this. "I won't do it! Why can't he marry someone else, why does it have to be me?"

Odin slams a hand on the table hard; Frigga jumps. You can't see Loki but you can feel the cold rage emanating from him. "Are you dim, girl!" Odin bellows. "Do you want to see this kingdom plunged into civil war when there are two firstborn heirs? If you were my daughter I'd have you whipped!"

"But I'm not!" Your voice matches his. "You can't make me do anything I don't want to - I'd rather face a war, anything, anything but marry him!"

"You selfish, wilful woman!" the Allfather roars. "I let you marry my son; my first son, my finest son-" Loki makes a small, hateful noise- "and then I offer you another and you spit on me. Who do you think you are!" He's in your face now, tall and broad and terrifying. You have to fight to keep your spine straight and you chin high.

"I don't care what you say, I won't do it! I refuse to let my son be raised by that man; I'll take a holy vow or I'll go home, but I will not let my son be raised by his father's murderer."

Odin's one eye is impossibly bright. He reels back and for a moment you think you've done it. Then his voice is calmer, more dangerous. "Fine," he says icily. "Go home, back to your peasant village. But my grandson will stay here and you will never see him again."

Somewhere beside you Frigga gasps, "Odin..."

Your vision swims. "That's absurd. You can't do that." Your heart ached; where was Thor when you needed him? He would never ever have let any of this happen. For the first time you feel a flicker of anger towards you deceased husband.

"I'm the Allfather," Odin says bluntly. "I can - and you know damn well that I will. It would be easier with your cooperation, but if you insist on this defiance then I'll take the boy and raise him myself."

Never have you wanted to hit someone so much. "I swear to the Norns," you hiss, "I swear by the Nine, I will die before I let that happen."

He narrows his eye. You could stab that eye out, and give him a matching set. "You won't die," he snaps. "But you will marry my son. Do you understand?" There's a noise as the door shuts and you realise Frigga has left the room.

You're still shaking your head. "No..."

"So be it. Guards!" Odin raises his voice, and two Einherjar step into the solar, "Bring my grandson."

"No!"

He looks at you again. "Well?" You're trembling from head to toe and you lower your gaze to the floor. Your shoulder slump. Odin dismisses the guards, and he knows he's won. He turns away from you in disgust. "Get out of my sight."

You hear him snap at Loki, standing just behind you, "Not you, I've more to discuss about your behaviour."

You flee from the room instantly, past Loki, past the guards and back to your quarters. Magni's crib has been moved to the foot of your bed and you fly over to ensure he's still there. Sobs of relief rise in your throat when his familiar little face greets you. With a shaking hand you give him your index finger to curl onto. He only does so for a minute before his grip loosens and he falls back asleep.

You sink to the floor beside the crib, skirts spread around you. Whatever anger you'd felt towards Thor was long gone, and now you felt only terribly and utterly alone.

The next morning you are woken early by a servant. Her face is excited, but fades into concern when she finds you on the floor. You wave her off as she tries to help you up. Your back and hip ache from lying on the cold stone. "What is it?" you question tiredly as she hovers, almost bouncing with eagerness.

"I'm to tell you that you have an appointment with the seamstress in an hour Madam, and then you're needed for planning, and then the Allfather says you must rewrite invitations; the wedding's been brought forward!"

If possible, the news makes you feel even more tired than before. A ripe berry catches your eye, and you pluck it from the breakfast tray. "Brought forward to when?"

"Friday Your Grace, four days!" The strawberry held in your hand is placed back on the plate. You start laughing to yourself. The girl stares at you worriedly, "Madam?"

Your laughter slowly ceases. "Nothing," you say. There's no point fighting it anymore. "Nothing at all."

Four days pass far more rapidly than four weeks, and then you're stood in the bridal chamber with a flock of ladies and servants fluttering around you. They wash you and help you into the dress; perfume is massaged into your skin, and careful attention is paid to darkening your lashes and lips. Normally you would enjoy such activities, but not today.

The gown has turned out exceptionally well for the short time the tailors were given, even if you can't properly appreciate it. It hugs your shoulders and waists, flowing into a gentle pool at your heels. Behind you, mother brushes your hair out. You've been told to wear it long and loose, 'like a maiden.' It's absurd; you're a woman grown, and even if you are still young you hardly feel it.

She hands you the newly-made bridal crown - a thin gold circlet, engraved with runes for love, happiness, fertility, and good fortune. The bridal crown is usually kept and passed down to a daughter to wear, who passes it to hers in turn. But you and Thor had no daughters, so your family crown had burned along with his body. You place it onto your head and it feels heavy.

Before your thoughts can turn dark, Lorelai's voice comes. "Could I steal a moment?"

You nod, and she quickly shoos the attendants out to take their places. Your mother wanders away to give you both some privacy. The redhead's eyes take you in. "You look lovely," she says with forced cheerfulness. "I adore the colour."

Your eyes meet in the mirror and hers are full of unwavering loyalty. "Thanks," you say monotonously, "I thought I'd throw them one last surprise."

Stepping closer, Lorelai lowers her voice. "I cannot believe this," she mutters, under the pretence of fussing over your hair. "Wedding you to Loki, of all people..."

You swallow. She moves in front of you then, and takes your hand. A small object presses into your palm. "What..." You look down at the vial. It contains only a few drops of a misty liquid, and your eyes fly to her. "Lorelai!" You attempt to give it back to her but she closes your fingers over it.

"At least now you have a choice," she whispers fiercely. "I can't just let you do this knowing I'd never tried to help!"

Tears fill your eyes and you hug her close. She responds in kind. A knock comes at the door and your stomach plummets - it is time. "You're the very best of friends," you tell her upon drawing back.

Lorelai squeezes your hand, "It's no less than you'd do for me." With a last sad smile, she departs and you are left floundering. Hands trembling, you filter through the boxes of jewellery to find a simple gold chain, attaching the vial to it and tucking it discreetly into the bodice of your gown. Staring at the reflection in the mirror, you feel your mother lay a hand silently on your bare shoulder. Grasping it tightly, you take deep breaths to steady yourself. Nothing feels real. Neither of you speak a word when the Einherjar come to lead you to the ceremony hall.

When she leaves your side as you wait for the signal to enter, it makes you feel small. Then you hear gungnir hit the floor, and the attendant nods. You straighten your shoulders and work to keep your countenance clear as the doors open, and then you begin the long walk through the crowds to the dais where the royal family await you.

Loki is already kneeling in front of Odin, who is stood high above. He's dressed in white and gold ceremonial armour - the colours brings out the blackness of his hair, falling around his face in loose strands. His deep green cloak sways with every tiny shift he makes.

Frigga's brow creases as you appear and you suddenly remember that you haven't told her about the change you have made. Instead of the pale grey you had initially chosen for your wedding gown, today you wear a deep ruby, threaded through with spidery gold lace. Odin may have won, Loki may have you, but you will never let them forget the cost. In the crowd you see Lorelai, who has pushed her way to the front. She nods proudly.

Loki is watching, and you see the moment his eyes land your gown. Eagerly, you wait for anger, annoyance, embarrassment to bloom on his face; but he only smirks before turning away. Whatever satisfaction you had been waiting for turns cold in your belly. You come to rest in front of the steps leading up to the dais where Odin stands.

Ascend the steps, kneel. Have your wrists knotted, stand, speak the words. You've done it before, you can do it again. It's simple.

But your legs won't move, and Odin begins to glare. Loki turns his head towards you, and at last the smirk on his face wavers. Frigga sends you a pleading look. There's nowhere to run. Nothing to be done. So you swallow your pride, climb the steps, and force yourself to your knees in front of Odin, chin high, and the rites begins.

"Does this woman's house consent to this marriage?"

Your mother's reply is quiet. "We do."

"Does this man's house consent to this marriage?"

Frigga answers, "We do." It's difficult to hear the two people you respect most in the world agree to this farce, and you swallow.

As Odin gives the traditional speech, you chance a sideways glance at Loki. You'd hoped, expected even, for him to seem at least apathetic to the proceedings. But his eyes are alight with intensity as he listens to his father's words, and he seems to be barely concealing a smile. You haven't seen him look so satisfied in years.

Disturbed, you return your gaze to the floor. The glass vial is warm against your chest.

When the Allfather finishes, you both rise and turn to each other. Loki holds out his hand for you to take. Trying to stifle the tremble in your fingertips, you do so. His grip on your wrist is firm. Odin wraps the long cord that signifies the binding of your lives around your joined hands quickly and easily. "Speak the words, and be bound together."

Loki's voice is confident. "In the names of my ancestors, I, Loki Odinson, claim this woman for my wife. I will warm her bed, honour her name, and shield her back til the end of my days."

Odin repeats himself again as the cord wraps around your wrist. Your eyes are fixed somewhere on Loki's chest. There is a miniscule scratch in the golden metal on his chest, and you concentrate on it. "In the name of my ancestors," the words come stiffly, "I claim this man for my husband; to warm his bed, honour his name, and shield his back."

"Until?" Odin prompts. You send him a hateful look.

"Until the end of my days." Your voice is small, weak, and you hate the sound.

"Then it is done." He knots it tightly and stands back. "I call upon the Norns and all those who bear witness to this day, to bless this union and give proof of the binding of these souls." He strikes gungnir once, twice, and the cord dissolves into gold-dust. It sinks into your forearm, and you know that if you look down at your wrist it will once again bear the rune that marks you as a married woman.

When the cheers finally lessen, Odin speaks once more and you move aside, onto the step beneath Frigga. "Kneel, my son, and receive your birthright."

Not his, you think bitterly. When Thor had been coronated you had been so proud, you'd clapped so hard and for so long that your palms had stung bright pink. Today the only sting comes from the nails curled into your flesh.

It does not take long; Loki pays rapt attention to the words his father utters, and when he swears his oaths his smile nearly shows.

"Then on this day, I, Odin Allfather, proclaim you King."

Loki rises, and the older man passes him gungnir. The high priest steps forwards and bows at Loki's feet; the einherjar follow suit. Frigga smiles, the first display of genuine happiness you've seen from her in weeks, and she moves forward to kiss Loki's cheek. He leans down to allow her to do so, and Odin watches with a stern gaze. The applause that had begun grows in strength when the Allmother shows her support.

Your hands remain clasped tightly together.

Suddenly Loki is turning to you, extending a pale hand. Without a choice, you step forward and accept it, face impassive. You close your eyes as his fingertips touch your chin, tilting your lips towards him. Loki's mouth presses against yours, gently, and you can feel the grin he's been holding back break on your skin. You swallow a sob. His touch lingers a moment too long.

Opportunity presents itself time and time again during the day. During the banquet Loki's goblet is easily within reach, his attention diverted by the many people clamouring for his attention. As the day wears on, Frigga takes him outside for a few brief minutes, leaving his plate unattended. Over and over servants pass you with jugs of wine and mead; any single one you could demand, place a few drops into, and then place for him to reach for.

Why do you pause? Lorelai glances at you often, her gaze both comforting and questioning. You know without a doubt if she were in your place she would not hesitate.

But Odin sits not far from you, his presence a constant reminder of the threat of losing Magni. That you could not bear - you would never abandon your son to face the world alone. You slump in your seat. Gradually movement catches your eye, and you look up to see Lorelai in the arms of a soldier - her latest lover, you assume - waving you over. Rising, you make your way to her slowly, careful not to draw attention.

When you reach her, she pulls away from her escort and grabs your hand. "Let's dance!" She says, overly brightly. Once you are both comfortable with the rhythm, she asks under her breath, "When will you do it?"

You glance around nervously before replying. "I don't know. I... I don't know if I can."

Lorelai twirls gracefully, but you can see worry in her eyes. "Are you alright?" You nod. "You would be free..."

"Would I?" you mutter. "Magni is Odin's grandchild; I am the queen. Even if they didn't suspect me - which of course they would - it does not release me from this family or my duties to it."

"I would never tell."

"I know."

The dance turns, and you are parted for several twirls and spins. When Lorelai reaches you again, her voice is insistent. "You could run," she says quietly, smiling at the courtiers around her.

It is a tempting thought. Death would be quick, and Thor would be justly avenged - Frigga and Odin would be too dumbstruck to react on instinct and the whole of Asgard would be distracted. You could fake shock, return to your quarters, take your son and go... Even as you think it, you know in your heart that you will never do it. To do so would reek of guilt; you'd be found sooner or later. "No," you say, "Magni's place is here; his birthright is here. I will not take him away from it."

"You would rather be married to him?"

A shudder runs through you at the thought of the years ahead of you - not doubt Loki had many humiliations and hurts ready to inflict upon you. No wonder he was smiling, you think miserably. Now you are his to torment in far greater severity than he'd ever been able to before. Lorelai is quiet as the dance comes to an end. When it does, the pair of you slip into shadows and she hugs you tightly. You know she does not understand, but she doesn't have to.

Only a few moments are granted between you when her soldier comes to claim her for another dance. Bored, you wander the outskirts of the feasting hall until you're back at the banquet table. It's almost completely empty; both Frigga and Odin are nowhere in sight, and aside from a few drunken nobles at the far end the seats have been abandoned.

Loki's cup is empty; you know a servant will be by soon enough to refill it. Your fingers touch the spot on your sternum where the vial rests, both a comfort and a torment.

Suddenly, Lorelai's words seem much more tempting. Perhaps you could run. Perhaps Frigga and Odin would not believe you capable of such an act, and you could raise your son alone as you liked. Now you're clenching the vial between your fingers. You reach for the cup when your sleeves fill your vision; the crimson is the exact colour of Thor's cloak. You pause. Thor would never have harmed Loki; if he knew you were contemplating such a thing surely he would be disgusted.

A serving girl is darting along the table, swiftly refilling the cups and tankards being held out to her. Slowly, you rescind your grasp.

You're only stood there a few moments longer after finishing the cup when your name is said. You whirl round with a start. Loki stands in front of you, hands folded behind his back. He looks the definition of dashing, with his long cape and strong stature, and if there were not so much animosity in your heart you would have felt thrilled. "We ought to dance." It's not a request and this is a public affair; so you unwilling allow him to guide you to the floor.

Once he reaches the centre Loki stops and turns to you. He steps closer than you would have preferred, but you can hardly back away. The tempo is slow and easy, and he leads you along the floor in smooth circles. The music swells and stops, and another song starts up but he's still got his arm around you. "Are you enjoying your day?" His eyes flicker over you.

Of course he's mocking you. "Oh yes, I've dreamed of this particular nightmare many times," you bite back.

"Many times? Maybe you've been confusing a nightmare for a wish." He sounds amused. You don't reply. Loki continues, "I do like your dress I must say - a striking colour. I don't suppose it has any, ah, relevance."

"Why? Does it remind you of someone?"

Loki's cool eyes slide to yours, and it unnerves you to see the smugness still lingers. "Not at all. But of course it is symbolic; red for passion, red for desire-"

"Red for blood," your voice is blunt.

His lips press together. "Perhaps we ought to steer away from such morbid topics on our happy day." Was it a happy day? You hadn't thought so. His gaze is on your lips and your eyes begin to narrow. He leans in, and you bring your hands up to push him away. "What's this?"

Instead he's tracing the delicate chain around your neck, dipping dangerously lower. "I-" Loki pulls the small vial from between your breasts, and your heart thuds. It hangs between you. "It's for... energy."

Loki's eyes slowly move to yours. "Energy," he says flatly. You hold his stare uncomfortably. "And what's in it?"

"I..." Breathing comes with some difficulty and you bite down on your lip. Now that you know his true capabilities, something within your mind is ever on guard. "It's just some tonic to keep me from needing to retire."

"I want to know." The words are said with clear precision.

Your hands were growing clammy. He knows, he knows, the thought tearsthrough your mind. "It's just a tonic," you repeat stubbornly.

"I see." His voice is smooth, and you relax minutely. "I must admit I've been feeling rather drowsy myself, after all it's been such a busy day. I hope you don't mind." In a flash he has dropped your hand and unstoppered the lid, and the chain pulls against your neck as he raises it to his lips.

"Don't!" You seize his hand before he can tip the vial down his throat and the venomous droplets splash onto your hand and harmlessly drip onto the floor.

The moments that pass are silent and fragile. Then Loki yanks the chain from your neck; you wince as it bites into your skin before breaking apart. His eyes are hard. Then he pulls you close, one hand curling around your waist. You stare over his shoulder and for the first time you're terrified. He's close enough that your hair brushes his nose and his breathing is in your ear when he speaks. "I think it would be wise," his voice is cool, "not to tell my father about this."

There is the sound of crunching glass and then a tinkle as he drops the shards and chain. His boot presses them into the ground. You feel dizzy and faint as he once again begins to dance with you. Whatever horrors he had in mind were surely going to be amplified now. When the dance finishes he releases you instantly, and marches away.

By nightfall you've worked yourself into a state and a decidedly sick lump is in your gut - whether from worry or from the sheer amount of wine you had consumed in order to cease shaking, you don't know. Lorelai had come straight over to you after Loki had left you on the dancefloor and you'd barely made it to a private nook before telling her everything. Her face had gone pale.

As the evening darkens into night, you swipe an abandoned steak-knife from one of the tables and hide it in your sleeve. In all honesty you have no idea what to expect once you're left alone with Loki, away from every person who could help you if needed. The more you think on it the worse you feel.

Frigga lets you know just before your attendants arrive to escort you to the bridal chamber, and it gives you just enough time to secure a last goblet of wine. The women arrive and hustle you into the chamber with giggly jokes and some lewd comments and wellwishes, and then they're gone. The door closes behind them and for the first time since you awoke that morning you're left in silence.

The small chamber is filled with candles and a fire burns in the hearth; other than that it is bare, except for a huge luxurious bed and a vanity table. A large mirror stands in one corner of the room and you go to it, needing to see your own face.

When you do, your fear ebbs a little and a strange calmness overcomes you. As you take deep breaths, laughing male voices come from outside, growing louder, and then the door opens and Loki enters.

You are resolved on how this night will end, and as you reach up to remove your bridal circlet the knife in your sleeve pokes into you to give you strength. There are small jewels glittering in your hair, and you begin to remove them. In the background, you hear Loki move.

The sound of armour being undone is familiar to you, having watched Thor do it so many times. You identify the rustle of his cloak, the metal of his vambraces. Then there is quietness. Your fingers snag on a piece of your hair and divert your attention. Warmth rests on your shoulder. Loki's touch on your bare flesh makes you recoil. "What are you doing?"

His brow creases faintly and his mouth opens - and if he weren't Loki he might even look uncertain.

You've rehearsed what you're going to say already, so the words come out smoothly. "I'm not a virgin and we're not expected to reproduce, so there's no need," you tell him coolly.

Loki freezes. "No need?" he questions quietly.

You turn back to the mirror and continue to remove your jewels. The knife is still nestled in your sleeve. "None." He watches you with a look you can't read; something between heat and frustration and something else. Then he draws himself to his full height and steps back.

"Well then," suddenly his voice is acidic. "Thank the norns for that." He turns on his heel and walks right out. The door slams behind him.

You stand unmoving for a long moment before relief washes over you. Dropping your hands from your hair, you snatch the goblet from the vanity table. The wine that fills your mouth with every sip is overwhelming and unreasonably comforting; it burns your throat on the way down but it's a welcome sensation.

The doors banged shut, and then Thor is kissing you and laughing, and your teeth clash. Breathlessly you both pulled away, large grins reflected on both your faces. He looked around, "What room is this?"

You shrugged, hands going to undo the buttons on the back of your wedding gown. "No idea." He's happy with that and reached forward to help you; together you got the heavy dress off in record time. Thor's eyes are soft and your heart swelled. "Do you think anyone's actually a virgin on their wedding night?" you asked him suddenly. He snorted and you laughed.

"I doubt it very much," he said, shaking his head. His hands went to his tunic and he began to undress. You watched the muscles that rippled with his every movement. "Was today too much?"

"No not at all! It was just a little tiring if I'm honest."

Thor paused, hands on his belt. "Not too tiring I hope?"

"Don't be silly," you grinned, "I'm glad to be alone with you though."

"And I you. And even better, we have plenty of time to be alone now." Thor dipped his head down to kiss you again. His lips tasted like the honey-mead he loves, and you relished the sweetness.