Thor, the thunder, first born son of the Alfather, had returned as victorious from conquering some danger no one knew about and everyone was glad to be rid of. He and the Warriors three were the honored guests. The Alfather sat, with his wife, the beloved Frigga, more quiet then the rest of their guests.
Splendid, magnificent, every hall was filled with vigorous warmth of the summer's night, half spent already.
Lost amidst the crowds, she made her way. A princess of Vanahiem, the only daughter of the passed king. All eyes cast upon her, every tounge was quick to silence prattling as she passed, as if she knew not what was said and what was whispered, and then whisphers made wings to all ears.
All knew why she was to abide there, it was no secret. Unloved and uncherished princess of a once great realm, the pity of the royal family, old alliances, reasons as foolish as the minds who thought them, some far too true and some unworthy. Times tends to steal away things men think beautiful until there is little but the memory for the heart and the ruins for the eyes, and such was the realm she called home. She had called Asgard home, once, as well. Whether more of her heart clung to Asgard or to Vanahiem ... she did not know.
But she did not falter. How could they understand if they did not know?
Here she was, in Asgard, the place so happy in childhood's past. Each summer, the royal Vanir family had traveled to the golden city, to dwell. Freindship, rather then duty, had began the relation, for Frigga and the gentle queen, Freya, were nearer sisters. It had been said the blood of the forgotten Light Elves coursed in her, beings more lovely then the Alfhiem, but her father, the old king Nijord , silenced the mention of it.
But, when she passed to Valhalla, far too soon, King Iwaldi no more made the excursions to Asgard. Remembering it was remembering happy times that could be no more. He declined into the hardened and calloused ruler he swore never to be, allowing what he would not have if she were still there, alive and breathing, to soften cold resolve. His daughter in his old remaining life, became the one soul he cared for; his son was no more then the one who would take his throne, too eager to fill it, already. When he grew frail, the old god did not fight it, thought, for his little Sigyn he would have, perhaps, but heartache and disparity had lingered so long, too long.
The immortal had passed, the god had fallen. Rule passed to the son. And the princess became only part of his inheritance but he would not brush her aside, as feared. No, he knew what might be gained with this half sister, the last of the Light Elves. Gain he would, if the kingdom fell in splinters under his fist.
Letters, usual over spoken, over contemplated flatteries dripping from parchments, were sent, and were returned with equal flowery language. Under the protection of the Alfather and the royal family, Sigyn was sent to the Golden city, to dwell as long as she wished.
Still, through sorrow, the girl had remained as bright, as gentle, even in her sorrow.
"The lady Sigyn joins us at long last!"
Jovial exclamation called louder over the soft rumble of voices, the prince beckoning to her with a broad smile. The warriors three were with him, laughing. She gave a gentle smile to him, not wishing to be noticed. The air had become sickeningly close, all she wished for was the air outside.
"Ah, Thor, you have'nt introduced me," echoed a blonde warrior, younger then Thor himself, it seemed, his manner and eyes bright with some unsaid wit.
Mellow tones of voices and softer air wafted from the still, lush green beneath. Grey stone, lighter accents, the glow of torchlight in the water fountains. There was a tree, from Vanahiem, they had brought on one of their trips, in the garden. A lunar weeper, drooping like a grieving widow in the paled courtyard.
"Forgive me."
Changed, there was an earnestness she'd thought hardly capable with words.
Her answer came the softer, calmer, then she knew.
"...it was no fault of yours."
Laughter stirred the silence about his ears. Something with the words, the shy tip of her head as she looked away from him, realization took him.
The sound of cloth and armor moving, she stared when he leaned closer towards her. Bright eyes, just the same, did not look at her. Why did she wish they would, when at the same moment they made her uneasy? They focused on some unseen place, beyond even her hands he'd taken and stared into, dark brows furrowed below the edge of the gold helm. This could not be the same Loki; she scarce remembered him this way. She scarce remembered him any way except when he forever left mischief in his dreaded wake.
"It would seem," very softly, "That I have caused the lady grief."
He caught her look of surprised, wonderment, and laughed. The sound gave way to such a cauldron of feelings, because it was neither ridicule or amusement. More of unspoken apology, regret he could not speak.
"You have done nothing to grieve me, my lord," and the princess smiled, at him, reassuringly, "... indeed, how could you, when you've already made me forget my troubles?"
"Ah, have I?" He eyes brightened, still. "Well, then, my lady," a glint of playfulness, "Shall we show you Asgard's garden's?"
Slight and small, no taller then his own mother. Her hair the hue of wheat beneath an autumn moon. Graceful, eyes that calmed one under their soft and open stare. Fault and virtue both go hand in hand, and both must be tended to if one wishes to better, and Sigyn knew it. Kindness cost nothing save pride, and, to her mind, so little had to be given up to give it.
He saw things he could not with his own eyes, when she talked of them. He listened more then he spoke, the need was not there. No facade, no false masked. It was not silly, nothing could be silly when she was with him.
But she did not falter. How could they understand if they did not know?
Here she was, in Asgard, the place so happy in childhood's past. Each summer, the royal Vanir family had traveled to the golden city, to dwell. Freindship, rather then duty, had began the relation, for Frigga and the gentle queen, Freya, were nearer sisters. It had been said the blood of the forgotten Light Elves coursed in her, beings more lovely then the Alfhiem, but her father, the old king Nijord , silenced the mention of it.
But, when she passed to Valhalla, far too soon, King Iwaldi no more made the excursions to Asgard. Remembering it was remembering happy times that could be no more. He declined into the hardened and calloused ruler he swore never to be, allowing what he would not have if she were still there, alive and breathing, to soften cold resolve. His daughter in his old remaining life, became the one soul he cared for; his son was no more then the one who would take his throne, too eager to fill it, already. When he grew frail, the old god did not fight it, thought, for his little Sigyn he would have, perhaps, but heartache and disparity had lingered so long, too long.
The immortal had passed, the god had fallen. Rule passed to the son. And the princess became only part of his inheritance but he would not brush her aside, as feared. No, he knew what might be gained with this half sister, the last of the Light Elves. Gain he would, if the kingdom fell in splinters under his fist.
Letters, usual over spoken, over contemplated flatteries dripping from parchments, were sent, and were returned with equal flowery language. Under the protection of the Alfather and the royal family, Sigyn was sent to the Golden city, to dwell as long as she wished.
Still, through sorrow, the girl had remained as bright, as gentle, even in her sorrow.
"The lady Sigyn joins us at long last!"
Jovial exclamation called louder over the soft rumble of voices, the prince beckoning to her with a broad smile. The warriors three were with him, laughing. She gave a gentle smile to him, not wishing to be noticed. The air had become sickeningly close, all she wished for was the air outside.
"Ah, Thor, you have'nt introduced me," echoed a blonde warrior, younger then Thor himself, it seemed, his manner and eyes bright with some unsaid wit.
Mellow tones of voices and softer air wafted from the still, lush green beneath. Grey stone, lighter accents, the glow of torchlight in the water fountains. There was a tree, from Vanahiem, they had brought on one of their trips, in the garden. A lunar weeper, drooping like a grieving widow in the paled courtyard.
"Forgive me."
Changed, there was an earnestness she'd thought hardly capable with words.
Her answer came the softer, calmer, then she knew.
"...it was no fault of yours."
Laughter stirred the silence about his ears. Something with the words, the shy tip of her head as she looked away from him, realization took him.
The sound of cloth and armor moving, she stared when he leaned closer towards her. Bright eyes, just the same, did not look at her. Why did she wish they would, when at the same moment they made her uneasy? They focused on some unseen place, beyond even her hands he'd taken and stared into, dark brows furrowed below the edge of the gold helm. This could not be the same Loki; she scarce remembered him this way. She scarce remembered him any way except when he forever left mischief in his dreaded wake.
"It would seem," very softly, "That I have caused the lady grief."
He caught her look of surprised, wonderment, and laughed. The sound gave way to such a cauldron of feelings, because it was neither ridicule or amusement. More of unspoken apology, regret he could not speak.
"You have done nothing to grieve me, my lord," and the princess smiled, at him, reassuringly, "... indeed, how could you, when you've already made me forget my troubles?"
"Ah, have I?" He eyes brightened, still. "Well, then, my lady," a glint of playfulness, "Shall we show you Asgard's garden's?"
Slight and small, no taller then his own mother. Her hair the hue of wheat beneath an autumn moon. Graceful, eyes that calmed one under their soft and open stare. Fault and virtue both go hand in hand, and both must be tended to if one wishes to better, and Sigyn knew it. Kindness cost nothing save pride, and, to her mind, so little had to be given up to give it.
He saw things he could not with his own eyes, when she talked of them. He listened more then he spoke, the need was not there. No facade, no false masked. It was not silly, nothing could be silly when she was with him.
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