“How can I feel anything but relief and affection at the sight of the cream-haired, peach-skinned beauty who knits horn warmers for me with a straight face, waiting to see how long I will praise her work before I break down and ask her what on earth she thinks horn warmers can really do, only to laugh at me, for she has pranked the Trickster? The mother of my twin sons, my wise counsel, far fiercer than her pastel hued attire would ever hint, deceiving in her own way, like her husband? I will ever match her in faithfulness, though we are hardly alike.”
“To say that I am ‘fond’ of my wife is something of an understatement. Sigyn is all that I am not, but in ways that complement and soothe me. She is round and soft and gentle, candid and unwaveringly ethical. One thing that we share, however, is our faithfulness, and another, the voracity of our minds. We, too, feel more deeply than we divulge, though she to seem steady and composed, and I out of a natural suspiciousness toward the intentions of other. But since her pregnancy I have come to fear that I am a disappointment, and though I would die to preserve her, my dearest friend and confidante, my beautiful and maddeningly sensual harbor in chaos, I must also confess, she is less good at concealing that disappointment than she realizes. Eheh … she has a temper, as well. I do not have a monopoly on that. There is a reason her hair is red.”
Loki looks down at his wife the way one would look at something hardy yet sweet: fresh fruit in winter, or a fine material stretched thin. He is more aware of his fortune than people realize.
“Happy New Year, Sigyn,” he croons, bending to nuzzle her cheek, and steal a far longer kiss on the lips.
“Well, my … my word, Sigyn … !”
The formal hyperboles are just a way of stalling, while the feeling of warmth like descending into the soothing glow of a bath filled with soaps and flowers and scented oils floods every limb and leaves him feeling pleasantly cottony.
“You would wish to claim me yours again? After every way in which I have vexed you?”
He laughs, and it’s a light sound, a sound from their earliest days of courtship, silverly and soft, free of the shadows of care that have long burdened him.
No one ever claims me except as a nuisance, or a bane… Long have I learned to accept it as a badge of honor, of infamy, and yet, here she is … .
“Mm hmmmm” Sigyn replied, nuzzling the crook his neck while her fingers ran through his hair. She steals another kiss from his lips. And then a another. Pressing her forehead against his, she speaks softly,
“You will always be mine.”
Another kiss.
“Do I take this as a ‘yes’?”
The possessive tone with which his wife speaks ignites Loki’s skin on cold fire, goose pimples breaking out on pale skin.
He receives her first kiss, still blinking in consternation, and her second he returns with the voracity of a she-wolf at the mouth of its cubs’ den.
“You may take that as an always, since you have said it that way, and it most certainly is the truth. I am yours always.”
“ … oh, ehm! Aha, ah, Sigyn, how very thoughtful.”
Hastily Loki dons his skills in diplomacy; he would rather wear a potato sack than hurt this darling little maiden’s feelings, but oh … it is knit. It is knit, and it is lemon and lime.
“I shall … wear this when … I … am in Nifleheim! Aye, and even my Jotun hide cannot withstand the inclement clime!”
“Oh dear. I fear you shall disengage yourself from my company permanently for this, but tis a mark of my vanity. The horns are my, er, attribute, as it were. However I must confess, as top heavy as they may seem, they are hollow, but the metal is refined enough to be used excellently in a pinch to bludgeon and, yes, stab.”
Loki looks perhaps more excited at the prospect of praising his glorified “cow horns” than is strictly dignified.
Loki looks down at his wife the way one would look at something hardy yet sweet: fresh fruit in winter, or a fine material stretched thin. He is more aware of his fortune than people realize.
“Happy New Year, Sigyn,” he croons, bending to nuzzle her cheek, and steal a far longer kiss on the lips.
Sigyn returns her husband kiss with equal fervor, holding his face in between her hands. After breaking away, she lovingly brushes away a stray lock of raven hair before planting another kiss on the tip of his nose.
“I have a proposal for you…” She said, taking his hands in hers, playfully wrapping them around her waist.
“ … When we arrive on Midgard, I want to renew our marriage vows, just as we did on Vanaheim.”
“Would you marry me again?
“Well, my … my word, Sigyn … !”
The formal hyperboles are just a way of stalling, while the feeling of warmth like descending into the soothing glow of a bath filled with soaps and flowers and scented oils floods every limb and leaves him feeling pleasantly cottony.
“You would wish to claim me yours again? After every way in which I have vexed you?”
He laughs, and it’s a light sound, a sound from their earliest days of courtship, silverly and soft, free of the shadows of care that have long burdened him.
No one ever claims me except as a nuisance, or a bane… Long have I learned to accept it as a badge of honor, of infamy, and yet, here she is … .
icyxmischief 