Loki’s falcon gaze catches Sigyn’s enthusiastic waving. He coughs, contains himself quickly and hesitates only long enough to pass a glance his father and brother’s way. Something about the indecent warmth of the gesture, and the way the Einherjar continue to stand at stiff attention over the courtyard, and the way sundry palace-goers with their elaborate coiffure and glistening silken attire gawk, all amount to his own contrary glee.
So he turns his mare and bids her bolt up on two legs in a whinnying salute, while waving with equal abandon all the way up at the rampart.
Loki’s very public affections warranted a handful of cheers from the crowds there to witness their monthly dose of Asgardian pomp- and a loud whistle issued by his brother.
“hmmm,” Sigyn hummed against his lips, before giving a quick kiss in return. “You seem to do plenty of that yourself! But I shall do my best to aid your efforts.”
Following close behind her husband, the AllFather greeted his Queen with regal restraint, almost as if an example. Together, Odin and Frigga turned to lead the way back from the open courtyard and into the palace, with Thor swaggering behind them, Sigyn and Loki following.
Sigyn clasped Loki’s hand tightly in her own. She had deeply missed the company and affections of her new husband, not quite realizing the attachment she felt until his prolonged absence.
“Won’t you tell me about the tour? I want to hear every detail!
“But of course, my darling.”
Loki scratches his chin in Thor’s direction, concealing a saucy hand gesture in the process. Shrewd eyes follow the Allfather and Allmother, lips pursing at Odin’s incessant disapproval, and Loki swallows the barb in his throat as ever, to compartmentalize and later ferment into further resentment.
For now, he focuses on his wife, one arm at her disposal, his opposite hand stroking her knuckles.
“Alfheim remains my favorite realm away from home, if only for their superior libraries chock full of rare magical scholastics, and their …let’s say, open mindedness, about the practice of sorcery. Oh, but Sigyn, I shan’t pretend that your beloved Vanaheim was not also a delight. You remember the unparalleled assortment of flowers and herbs, for all manner of bodily healing? I’ve brought you back a small apothecary with which to weave your charms. I remember your fondness for the art. Frankly I think you could teach the midwives and other, ehm, authorities on fertility practices, how to better perform their tasks.”
Loki is silent for a pregnant interval, licking slim lips and waiting for the right words to come: words that are both honest and kind. It’s difficult.
“No, darling. I haven’t pressed, owing to my … well, keen understanding about the grief and the shame, however misplaced on your part, true heritage can conjure.”
Loki tucks Sigyn’s fiery plait over one shoulder, and conjures a dozen white wildflower blossoms into it.
Loki cradles the bundle of blue skin that warms rapidly to beige; it seems Vali, like his father, displays Jotun blood, while capable of shape-shifting into the form of the fuzzy, loving, warm entities holding and feeding him. As for Loki, the Trickster’s leaned across his wife’s cot aboard the stolen Sakaaran spacecraft, protective, attentive, brimming with pride at the work Sigyn has undergone with little medical aid. He pets wet hair from her forehead and kisses it.
Loki’s falcon gaze catches Sigyn’s enthusiastic waving. He coughs, contains himself quickly and hesitates only long enough to pass a glance his father and brother’s way. Something about the indecent warmth of the gesture, and the way the Einherjar continue to stand at stiff attention over the courtyard, and the way sundry palace-goers with their elaborate coiffure and glistening silken attire gawk, all amount to his own contrary glee.
So he turns his mare and bids her bolt up on two legs in a whinnying salute, while waving with equal abandon all the way up at the rampart.
Grinning brilliantly.
Sigyn stopped at the top of the last flight of stairs, taking her place next to Queen Frigga, who’s calm, dignified grace stood as a direct contrast to her seemingly wild enthusiasm. Her cheeks flushed bright pink from running as she returned Loki’s wide smile.
Her gaze briefly met the bronze-clad visage of the AllFather- stern, with a hint of annoyance and disapproval glinting in his one eye. She felt its stare burn into her skull. However, she pulled her focus away from her father-in-law to greet her husband.
Sigyn reaches out towards Loki as he approaches, taking his hands in hers.
“I’m glad you are home, my dear!”
Loki’s breathy wheezes of laughter are audible before he has even reached his bride. Nevertheless he strides across Odin’s line of vision and pulls down her thick brocaded veil, to kiss, first, her forehead, and then, quite unapologetically, her rosy mouth.
“Do me a favor,” he murmurs against her lips, “absolutely never stop being exuberant about every single endeavor. It delights me to see some color in this place.”
Loki’s falcon gaze catches Sigyn’s enthusiastic waving. He coughs, contains himself quickly and hesitates only long enough to pass a glance his father and brother’s way. Something about the indecent warmth of the gesture, and the way the Einherjar continue to stand at stiff attention over the courtyard, and the way sundry palace-goers with their elaborate coiffure and glistening silken attire gawk, all amount to his own contrary glee.
So he turns his mare and bids her bolt up on two legs in a whinnying salute, while waving with equal abandon all the way up at the rampart.
“Eheh, my love…! That remark, and the expression you wear when you speak it, make me somewhat certain that you refer to activities of a licentious nature.”
Loki draws Sigyn flush against him and cards fingers down the length of voluminous auburn hair.
“Pay me no heed, I tease. But kiss me just the same, and let us make our plans.”
“I shall put your soul like a new lotus blossom in my pocket and carry it ‘round with me whenever I cannot be with you. And when I can we shall walk hand in hand always. Remember this, Sigyn.”
icyxmischief 