Chapter 17
Sigyn doesn’t remember exactly how old she was when she first met the trickster prince of Asgard. Only that they had both been very young, and they had both been very foolish, and they had both liked each other immensely from the start.
She hadn’t wanted to like him. In fact, she had quite desperately wanted the opposite. There were talks of an arrangement, back then; an engagement. Alfheim and Asgard had settled into an age of tentative peace with each other, as evidenced by her family’s permanent welcome to the Golden Realm, and what better way to seal the treaty than with a permanent union?
Just talks, of course. Nothing concrete, especially not while the children were—well, children. But Sigyn had always been a stubborn child, and in the days leading up to her family’s move, she had made up her mind that she would resist the marriage at all costs. She didn’t just dislike Loki of Asgard; she hated him. Loathed him, even. Nevermind the fact that she’d never laid eyes on him. She disliked what he represented: a future where she was forever disallowed from once more calling Alfheim her home, a future where she was seen as nothing more than a tool to broker relations between two realms. A political pawn.
Sigyn hated politics.
But it was hard to hate the black haired little boy who came to greet her at the palace gates.
Thor had been boisterous and loudmouthed, asking her questions and talking over the answers, picking up one of her suitcases before she could protest—not unfriendly, but overwhelming all the same to a homesick young girl. But Loki was quiet. Loki had been clutching at his mother’s skirts while his older brother fussed about, unmoving, just watching, until Frigga had bent down and whispered something in his ear and given him a gentle nudge in Sigyn’s direction.
He’d walked over. He held out a hand. And before she could ask what he wanted, or turn her nose up at him, or tell him very bluntly that she disliked him, the air above his hand glowed, and there appeared a little stalk, covered in tiny pink flowers.
He took another step forward, holding it carefully on the flat of his palm. As though he was afraid of crushing it.
“For you,” he said.
His pale, chubby cheeks held a slight flush. Sigyn forgot all of the biting remarks she’d been cataloging and saving up over the past week; she took the flower. As soon as she accepted it, Loki backed away, giving her a small, jerking nod of a bow, and retreated to the safety of Frigga’s skirts once more.
Sigyn felt a warmth in her chest—a glow. It was not uncommon for light elves to emit some type of luminescence when they were experiencing particularly strong emotions, but this wasn’t that. This was an unfamiliar feeling, one she couldn’t quite put a name to. All she could parse out was that it was a positive feeling, a good feeling. And it was a good feeling that was directed towards the little boy with the green eyes and the coal-black curls and the seiðr in his fingertips.
That was a very long time ago.
Now, Sigyn takes your hand firmly, but not unkindly, as the two guards bend at the waist. You notice most people in the vicinity do some type of similar bow or curtsy. Should I do that? You recall Loki mentioning something about Sigyn being a diplomat to Asgard from Andheim? No, Alfheim. Alfheim, that was it. Perhaps you should bow. It’s a bit late now, though; it would be silly of you to dip down just as everyone else has returned to full height.
“Apologies, Ambassador,” says the shorter guard. Colleth, that’s her name. You make note of the title—ambassador. If you’re going to have any kind of pleasant time living here, you’re going to need to learn the culture, and quickly. “We just didn’t—”
“Understood. You are dismissed.” She raises a brow at the group behind the guards, and the onlookers scatter. She turns to the door behind you, and passes her free hand over the door to your room. The knob glows gold, and she pushes the door open, tugging you in after her. The candles are relit before the door slams behind you, and before you can thank her, you find yourself caught once more in her gaze.
“Your intended,” she begins. “You are very dear to him.”
There is something satisfying about hearing her say your intended. It soothes the possessive, green-eyed beast that threatens to claw through your chest every time you think about the way she looked at him in the cell. The confirmation, the acknowledgement from her own mouth: he is yours. No matter what history may lie between them, Loki is yours.
At the same time, though, it’s impossible not to notice how carefully she’s choosing her words. Intended. And dear to him—not he loves you. You’re still too exhausted from the upheaval of your life, too unfamiliar with the customs of this realm, too unfamiliar with her, to gauge her sincerity. Because while it’s possible that Sigyn is just a very, very formal person, and her vocabulary is merely an expression of that, it is also possible that she is a master of passive aggression and veiled contempt.
But she did rescue you (kind of) from public humiliation. And she is now looking through your closet, pulling out different dresses—dresses that you’re ninety percent certain weren’t there last night—and holding them up and shaking her head.
“Thank you,” you offer. It feels so insignificant. So many miles away from everything you want to say—everything you want to ask. But they are the only words you can say. “I—”
“Come. Sit.” She pats a spot on the bed—which is freshly made, you notice with no small amount of discomfort—that isn’t covered with clothing, and you slowly make your way over, sitting there and looking up at her. A few dresses later, she finally nods in approval—at the dress, not at you— and lays it across the pillows with care. You rise to help her hang up the others; she stops you with little more than a raised hand. “Not in your condition.”
“I’m pregnant, not invalid,” you mutter.
She doesn’t appear to hear you.
When all the dresses are put away, she turns and comes to sit next to you. You catch a glimpse of the closet before the door shuts. Empty. Completely empty. You don’t know if that’s because she is magic or because the palace is magic, and either way you are a bit scared and a bit dizzy and more than a bit overwhelmed.
“You are very dear to him,” she repeats. You look at her. Try to ground yourself by clinging to her words, by taking in every feature of her smooth skin and ornamented hair and the ivory silk she wears. “And so you must take care of yourself. Do you understand? That means no wandering around unaccompanied.”
“It was dark,” you say. The words feel lame even before they leave your mouth. “And there was no window—”
She snaps, and the room is flooded with natural light. You look over with a start at the wrought-iron framing and thick glass panes that newly adorn the far wall. Oh. She definitely has magic, then. Very cool, very cool.
“T-thank you.”
“I will help keep you safe. But I cannot do it alone.”
It’s hard not to squirm under the intensity of her gaze. “That’s sweet, but you really don’t need to—”
“When you die,” she says bluntly, “he will go mad with grief.” For the first time, her eyes leave yours. Fixed in the center of her hands, her palms cupped together. “You cannot let that happen.”
“I…” How do you respond to that? You’re used to worrying about your own mortality. But you’re not used to having it pointed out by other people. “I won’t.”
“Good.” She nods, then stands up. Her face remains mostly impassive. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. The Allmother will come to fetch you soon for noonmeal.”
“It’s midday already?”
“You slept a while.” You don’t respond. You don’t know how to respond to any of this, any of this antagonistic friendliness she’s offering. At the doorframe, she pauses. Turns her head to glance back at you. And she says, “I know.”
What she knows, what she thinks, she doesn’t explain—only leaves the door to fall shut behind her.