Chapter 2
The rest of the interview passes without incident. It’s not until you’re back in the palace, in your pajamas, that you decide to bring up what you’ve resisted asking for several hours.
“So.” You pull out the remaining hairpins, stacking them in a loose pile on the nightstand next to you. “A few years, huh?”
“I thought it seemed reasonable.” He sides on the edge of the bed opposite you. “You didn’t really think you’d be walking down the aisle while you were still in your teens, did you?”
“But...I just…” You bite your tongue, trying to find the right words, finally giving up to look at him in despair. “That’s so long. And so vague . Do you mean three years? Four?”
“Would four years really be so terrible? That’s not even half a decade.”
“But it’s close!” You can hear yourself growing hysterical, and you know you shouldn’t be getting this worked up, but your throat is closing up and the tears refuse to leave. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just...it’s been a long day.”
“And?”
Your eyes fly open. “And what?”
He shrugs, but you can see genuine concern in his gaze. “You tell me.”
You stare at him—the lean cut of his silhouette, the soft down of his hair, the way his eyes never seem to leave yours—and try to reassure yourself that you have nothing to worry about. Yes, there are times when you’d like to whack him upside the head with a shovel (no, not literally—although, to be fair, he is a super strong, super genius/idiot alien. The only thing that might get bruised is his ego), but at the end of the day, you’d fly to the moon and back for him.
It’s just that sometimes, you can’t help but think about how temporary it all is. How temporary you are. Yes, his ring is on your finger…
But you’re still human.
You aren’t worried about whether or not you’ll love him in five years or so—you know you will. You’ve never loved someone so deeply . Even when you’re in the middle of an argument, you can feel him in your blood, in your bones, in every fibre of your being. Even when you see people staring at him. Or at you. And a lot of people stare—men, women, plenty of them almost as gorgeous as he is, staring at you reproachfully, and then you don’t know what to do with yourself.
And now…
“I’m so scared of losing you.”
It’s only a whisper, but he flinches, and you almost regret saying anything at all.
“I’m sor—” you try, but he cuts you off with a finger against your lips. It’s more something you would do to him, which would make you laugh, except he’s looking at you like a kicked puppy dog, and you’re not quite sure how to handle this.
“Why are you apologizing?”
You bite your lip. “I hurt you.”
“More than I’ve hurt you?” he reaches out to cup your face, running a thumb over your cheek. “You’re crying.”
Damnit. You pull back, swiping furiously at your cheeks. “I’m s—I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Why would you lose me?”
You shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Have I done something—acted wrongly in some way?”
“I don’t—it was a stupid thing to say, okay?”
You feel his hand on your elbow, and, with no small amount of reluctance, you lift your head back up to meet his gaze. “Please?”
“What if you find someone else?” And with that, the rest of it spills out. “What if you only chose me because, out of the eight of us, I was the least wrong for you, and what if there’s someone else out there that you’re supposed to be with? Because I want you to be happy, but what if you can’t be really happy because you’re with me?”
“Someone else—”
“There are a lot of people out there, and I’m not...they’re more…”
“More right?” he supplies. You nod, miserable, and he lets out a quiet laugh. “That would be impossible.”
The silence settles down gently, like newfallen snow, before you break it. “In the old myths, you have—had—you have a wife.”
If he’s taken aback by the sudden change of topic, he doesn’t show it. “You’re referring to Sigyn.”
“Yes.” For some reason, you’re surprised that this—out of all the stories you’ve read—turned out to be true.
“How much do you know about her?”
You pause, thinking. “Goddess of fidelity.”
“Yes. Loyalty. The purest embodiment of loyalty.” He turns your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm, before looking back up. “Sigyn and I were very close in a way that the Nordic people mistakenly took as marriage. We protected each other.”
“Took care of each other,” you say, thinking of the way you used to be with your friends back home.
“Yes. We weren’t in love, but we were together.” Something behind his eyes shifts. It’s not hard to tell that his mind is a million miles away. “You know, she would have done anything to save the people she loved.”
“Would have?”
His sudden silence is enough for you to understand that whatever ending this story may have, it isn’t exactly a happy one.
“After leaving Asgard,” he finally starts again, “I never thought I’d meet anyone with her capacity for love. But now…” He stops playing with your fingers, and instead covers your hands with his own. “You say energy can be neither created nor destroyed. I wonder if some of her energy hasn’t found a home in you.”
You shake your head gently, blinking back the fresh tears that have so-so-conveniently decided to show up. “I’m your...your replacement Sigyn?”
He chokes out a laugh through his own tears. “No,” he whispers. “You are so much more.”
WIth that, he kisses you, so fiercely you’re no longer certain there’s a world outside this room. His lips are warm, his fingers cold, his hair soft and feathery against your cheek, and oh, how could you have ever doubted for a second that he loves you?
Both of you are short of breath by the time you break apart.
“Every time I look at you,” he gasps, “I see everything I loved about her, yes.” You try to ignore the pang in your stomach. “But,” he continues, “I also see everything I love about you .”
Love.
Present tense.
He loves you.
He loves me.
And just like that, all thoughts of Sigyn, of your family, of anyone else whatsoever, are banished from your mind.
“You love me?” You ask it wearing the goofiest, most stupid-happy grin of all time.
Your hands are still intertwined, and he raises your left with raised brows, the engagement ring clearly on display. “If that’s still a question, then perhaps I’m not doing my job correctly.”
“I just…” You purse your lips, still thinking about the issue of waiting a few more years to be married. “I wish you’d asked me, about waiting. Before announcing it like that.”
He nods. “I should have.”
“And…” You bite your lip. “To be honest, I don’t understand why it’s necessary. I chose you, Loki. We chose each other. Why wait longer? Why drag it out?”
“I…” And then, miracle of miracle, he actually blushes. “I didn’t want you to feel rushed, actually.”
“What?” You stare at him until his cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red, and then you laugh. “You—why would you ever worry about that?”
He looks down, a smile dancing around the corners of his lips even as his tone remains sober. “I know that this remains a complicated situation for you. With your family, and with the other limitations of living in the palace for so long.”
You can’t pretend as though you’ve never considered that last point before. After all, in three years you’d had all of a month outside the confines of the grounds. Perhaps “confines” is the wrong word for such an expansive estate, but still—the acres of land provided the illusion of freedom, not the real thing.
And, yes. Your family. That’s a whole other can of worms that you’re not entirely sure you have the energy to consider on top of everything else you’ve discussed tonight.
“When I replace this ring,” he continues, raising your left hand so that it’s between you, “with a wedding band, I want you to be certain. I don’t want you to have any doubts that this is the life you want.”
“You know I don’t have any doubts right now, right?”
“Yes. And I swear to you, neither do I. I just…” He trails off, but you understand. The last few months. All the back and forth, the miscommunications, the angst. It’s going to take a while for either of you to adjust to this new normal.
To adjust to the idea that the person you want definitely wants you in return.
You purse your lips, and scoot closer to him on the bed. “I would like to propose a compromise.”
“Oh?”
You bring your clasped hands to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, before looking up at him. The act is enough to wipe some of the worry from his eyes. “One year.” He doesn’t protest or interrupt, merely tilts his head and listens as you continue, “Weddings take time to plan, so I won’t feel like we’re postponing it for nothing. But maybe a year will make you feel more comfortable.”
He nods. “I’ll know you’ve lived with the idea for a bit.”
“Exactly.” You lean in, pressing your forehead against his. “And you’ll know I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Well argued, Lady (Y/N).” He closes the distance between your lips with a quick peck, then pulls back to press another kiss to your nose. “A year it is.”