A soft feline sound escapes Sigyn’s husband, as at once all his attention pools on her lips and words.
“Trying what … what is that?”
The God of Mischief circles the Goddess of Constancy, nostrils curling slightly, as if a faint odor emanates from the very hue of yellow, but he strives, for her, to make no comment.
“Ehm, Sigyn, I really must hesitate. Green together with this yellow of a gold? For what event?”
A long pensive pause.
“I suppose it has a certain vivacity.”
Sigyn chuckled softly at her husband’s ‘activation’ noise, examining the flow of the cloak while he circles her. Constancy’s expert eye flickers over every stitch to ensure there is not so much as a loose thread.
“My love, as I recall your ceremonial armor once had gold embellishments. I thought the color would echo that nicely. I thought it would be perfect for the spring celebration next month.”
She hesitates for a moment, then continues. “I found the fabric among my inheritance from your mother. She had collected many such things from the places she had been, and set some aside–for Vali and Narvi’s wedding cloaks, if they choose to marry someday, and that sort of thing. I saw this one and it reminded me of how we met and courted.” She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I hope you like it? If not, it need only be worn on special occasions. I think you will look very fine in it, very regal.”
“Well, yes, my love, but quite a lot warmer in sheen, you know? Rather like how manuscript illuminators set their goldleaf over painted regions of red to offset the greenish … ehm.”
Her expression teeters over the crestfallen. Loki can’t even maneuver through his usual twisty peaks and valleys of persuasion. Yes, alright, so the damned cloak is lemon yellow. So it’s a bit more canaries and sunshine and bumblebees of cheer than the costumery with which Loki is accustomed. But how can he cause his wife dismay over something so trivial? Yes, even the God of Mischief is capable of quelling his vanity.
Somewhat.
“I … shall wear it for a suitably … .” Garish. “ … ehm, festive and perhaps somewhat …” Gaudy. “ … irreverent! Occasion.”
“Darling, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Loki tries to demure, rolling closer against Sigyn’s rounder, suppler and, she winces to notice, far warmer, form. “I scarcely stray from Nóatún’s halls these days. Soon we shall dwell in the same palace, if that is your desire. You have only to ask, and Asgard is your home.”
“Well, there is technically a sea between your home and mine!” Sigyn teased, nuzzling closer to Loki. “I hope I haven’t been holding you hostage.”
In truth, she had longed to remain in Loki’s company- permanently. However, the notion of living in the main city of Asgard gave her little pleasure beyond that. The City was strange; busy, stifling, and moreover, full of prying eyes whose ever-watchful gaze Sigyn had always felt during each and every visit.
By contrast, her family home was quiet, calm, and safe. Each wave that lapped upon the near shore brought in with it relief from the rigor of Asgardian society and court life.
Such feelings, Sigyn was wary of sharing with her lover, fearing that a perceived rejection of her homeland was, in turn, a rejection of her. However, Sigyn had always admired Loki most for her bravery in baring her own soul to her, and she believed it to be a disservice to her beloved to not be willing to do the same.
“Wouldn’t your courtiers find it odd for a wild, Vanic would-be princess to take up residence in Asgard’s great palace? I fear such a change would not go unnoticed.”
“ ‘Hostage’? Why, no.”
Loki’s slender fingers paw tenderly down the length of Sigyn’s form, hair to chest to belly, bending and tracing back up her nearest freckled arm. He’s sitting up in bed, fussing with her reclined form, sensitive to the disquiet within her. It’s strange, but perhaps revelatory, that every time Loki senses friction, Loki becomes male, as he does now.
“Your home is a paradise, and you its central fixture, which, forgive me for being blunt, but, I sense to be the source of your frustration.”
He slicks his lips with his tongue, unable, then, to suppress a smirk.
“A wild Vanic goddess happens to be precisely my taste of companion, and if this comes as a surprise to anyone in Asgard, then I shall court all of their scorn unto myself, that you may be at peace. Think on it.”
“Darling, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Loki tries to demure, rolling closer against Sigyn’s rounder, suppler and, she winces to notice, far warmer, form. “I scarcely stray from Nóatún’s halls these days. Soon we shall dwell in the same palace, if that is your desire. You have only to ask, and Asgard is your home.”
A soft feline sound escapes Sigyn’s husband, as at once all his attention pools on her lips and words.
“Trying what … what is that?”
The God of Mischief circles the Goddess of Constancy, nostrils curling slightly, as if a faint odor emanates from the very hue of yellow, but he strives, for her, to make no comment.
“Ehm, Sigyn, I really must hesitate. Green together with this yellow of a gold? For what event?”
icyxmischief 