Chivalry is Dead

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

Quietness. Not a single sound could be heard. Lady Frigga sat alone in the bed chamber that she shared with the all-father. It had been several days since she had barricaded herself in the room, refusing to leave, refusing to eat. Several days since the return of Loki. Her son.

Loki’s…

When the Queen of Asgard found the tall, gaunt man known she had adopted as her son, he was seated casually upon a stone bench that was placed aesthetically beneath the towering statues of famed Valhallan warriors that held up long arches, constructing an outdoor hall connecting one point of Gladsheim with another. Crooked in his lap was a thick book, pages yellowed and partially torn in select places, he appeared serene, though dark as he was, his face was downcast and his eyes hooded in a state of concentration. His legs were crosses and his shoulders pushed back in princely posture — giving him an air of tension though he seemed to be spending time towards relaxation.

He was pensive over his text, though he could hear the footfalls of his mother as she neared. He needn’t hear her speak to know what was to come. Surely yet another heated word and angrily drawn brow awaited him, and he silently cursed her for approaching him.

When Frigga’s eyes fixed on Loki, everything she had rehearsed in her head melted away. She froze. It truly was a bittersweet moment. Unexpectedly, she was happy to see him, but a part of her was angry, and hostile. The two emotions conflicted inside of her violently. 

She opened her mouth to let out a stern greeting, a harsh “How could you show your face here?” but nothing came out. She couldn’t speak. She was legitimately speechless.

Instead, she knelt before him, and took him into her arms, hugging him tightly, wordless. Tears rolled down her cheeks steadily as she held her son. Tears of happiness mixed with tears of guilt. She felt guilty that she was so happy to see him. Guilty that she was embracing Baldr’s murderer.

Having expected his mother to shower him with sharp, cutting words, Loki nearly gasped aloud as her arms snaked around him and pulled him into an embrace. In the early years of his life, while he was always on the forefront of blame and neglect by means of his father — Loki had always found solace in the warm, comforting words of his mother. Of course, such a trait gave rise to another string of insults from the other children of the court, their high-pitched voices jeering little things like, “run back to your mother, Loki!”

In truth, when Loki had tricked Hoder into that fateful throw of the mistletoe branch, Frigga had been far from his conscious mind. His thoughts surrounded only the prophecy of the norn witches, who told of songs that would be sung of him — his name being known throughout all the nine realms. The possibility of recognition, of finally having the place he deserved in the halls of history… even if it meant playing the villain.

Her tears were hot against the nape of his neck as Frigga held him, and whatever words he had formulated to hiss and spit at his mother with venomous intent had been thrown to the winds. It took him a goodly while to recall his visage of composure, his eyes returning from their widened state.

“Mother…” he began, his voice soft before hardening along with his heart, “…What is it that you want from me?”

His arms remained slack in his lap, holding his book with tense fingers that mirrored the sudden discomfort that radiated throughout his being, and his back arced like a feline’s under the weight of his mother as she hung from him.

Frigga broke the embrace and stared into her son’s sharp green eyes. The stress of the past few years was obvious upon his face. His eyes, which were usually a radiant green, were dull and tired. To her, he seemed even more pale and gaunt than the last time she saw him, and even more frail. He look like a sickly mortal. Exhausted and weak.

“How could you hurt me?” She started, her voice trembling. “I took you in, and raised you as if you were my blood child…”

She raised from the ground and repositioned herself on the bench next to Loki.

“I was robbed of one son that day, and lost another…”

That was all she could manage to get out. No other words came to mind. So she sat there silently, waiting for answers, and know that it was unlikely that she would get any.

Sighing inwardly as his mother broke her embrace and came to sit beside him, Loki took a moment to gather his patience. It had been the first time since his arrival in Asgard that he had left his chambers, and it was uncanny how accurate his prediction of his first interaction would be. No doubt Frigga expected him to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness — admit to his crimes and his regret for them and suffer in eternity for them. However, in truth, Loki would have done it a thousand times over. While he did not relish his brother’s death and the prophecy of Ragnarok slowly setting in motion, he would not have done it any other way. He would have usurped all of the mistletoe in all the nine realms to have Baldr slain if that was what it took.

He would not shed a tear for his brother, nor for his mother. He was Loki — and Loki cried but briefly and only for himself.

“Do you wish the truth, or do you wish pleasant nothings regarding my everlasting turmoil for Baldr’s death? For,” he paused to inhale deeply and crack open his book once more, his eyes intent on the words scrawled there rather than his mother’s pained face, “lies I can supply for you. In abundance.”

“Don’t speak his name.” Frigga replied sharply.

She looked away from Loki. He hadn’t changed a bit from the last time she saw him. His words were still poison, and he was still eager to spin a web of lies in order to please others, for self gain. The sound of Baldr’s name was hard for her to hear, and hearing it slip from Loki’s venomous lips made her angry. She felt like he had no right to talk of her beloved Baldr. The most loved of the gods.

“I was wrong to seek you out. You bring me nothing but sadness…”

As Frigga professed her anger towards Loki in her curt words, a smile ghosted across his face. This was the way he knew her to truly feel. She had come to him with a great lie of an embrace — offering what motherly “affections” she could muster, and yet this was the way he knew her to truly be. And so be it. He did not want her love. He wanted nobody’s love any longer.

“Words of endearment any son would seek from his mother, thank you,” he hissed with sarcasm and a sidelong glare.

With that he closed his book and drew to his feet.

“Tell me, wife of Odin, what was is that you expected from me? Did you have some fantasy in which I would return to your arms and shed many a tear for your son? Did we all laugh and dance and make merry after I returned?” his eyes finally fell upon her, his pose towering over her and his arms straight at his sides, “Was my sorrow enough to please all of Asgard and even Hel itself — and did Baldr come back from his warrior’s reward to the realms of life?”

Taking a moment to direct his visage apart from Frigga, he spat upon the ground and added, “For shame. Even in my mortal state do I share no regret for what I have done. And do you know why, mother? Because while I will never, ever, possess the light and love that you and father have given to Thor, and gave to Baldr, I will now possess the collective fear of all the nine realms. Warriors now pale at the mention of my name,” he lifted a hand and made a subtle flourish, “Loki: Bringer of the End.”

It was then that he took pause. Never in his life had he been so free and uninhibited before his mother. It had always been his way to slink about in the shadows, and yet as he stood before the patron goddess of motherhood, his poisonous tongue’s venom flowed as would the mead in the most generous halls in Valhalla.

He took pause, because, Loki was not without a heart — shriveled and distorted as it was, it lingered there in his chest with half a pulse. Although the muffled pain that resounded therein was all but snuffed out at the pure anger he felt for his parentage. Each time he had been told he was loved — a lie. Coming just before Frigga and the bench, his knees crooked and he sat upon his haunches, his face close to her’s.

“What is it,” he repeated in a voice just above a whisper, airy and akin to the voice of a snake, and his cold and scentless breath brushing the warm skin of her face, “that you would expect me to say for you?”

xpermafrost:

fanged-and-fabulous:

xpermafrost:

fanged-and-fabulous:

Oh fantastic!
Lovely to have you—hope I don’t disappoint. c:

From what I’ve seen of your artwork depicting my wife and I, I should doubt that you will disappoint.

You’ll come to find that this god of…

I look forward to seeing your rendition, and you have my thanks, mortal.

I’m sure that I speak on my wife’s behalf when I say that you have her thanks as well.

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

Casting his countenance to the ground, the Allfather heaved a deep sigh.

“You were my son, Loki,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, the gold of the slab over his right eye sparkling as if to allude to the war in which Loki was stolen from his ancestral home.

Exhausted and curt, Loki nearly scoffed at the idea, pushing the cloak off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor entirely as if to show that he stood his ground.

“No. I never was. Tell me, father, when a thief steals, is the object of his transgression really his?”

The words from the jotun that stood at the foot of the dais seemed to ignite something inside of the Allfather that caused his eyes to burn with rage. It was remarkable sometimes how much like Odin Thor was, and how blatantly the similarities showed. Opening his mouth as if to begin on a barrage of heated words, Odin suddenly closed it, instead, coming down the stairs of the dais so that he towered mere inches away from Loki.

If one were to spectate such an event, it would be remarkable how different the two were. Loki, tall, lean, and clothed in garb that adequately matched his pale skin and the dark, dramatic shadows that were cast about his face and brow — and Odin, mastadonic in stature and, though aged as he was, muscular and authoritative. It was quite clear who the snake was between them.

As if to dare him, Loki began to speak, but the words were torn from his very lungs as Odin thundered before him once again, “You must pay for your crimes!” he bellowed, grasping the loose cloth of Loki’s apparel around the neck and pulling him close, “I take from you your power — so that you might not do further harm!”
Casting the scrawny frost giant to the floor of the throne room, Loki’s sudden lack of strength caused him to go sprawling, his limbs weak.

He wanted nothing more than to rise and spit his own venomous words back at the old man, but he was utterly mortal. He had no gift to call on in the magical arts to whisk him away to some other realm — he did not have the vitality that had been given to him when he was made Asgardian. The sudden contrast between eternity and mortality left him gasping for air and weak, and yet he drew his face up to Odin where his green eyes cut like daggers the Einherjar came marching back in at the sound of raised voices and conflict.

“Remove him from my sight. I shall have further words with him… when I have devised the rest of his punishment,” said the Allfather, his visage suddenly one of a weary old man.

Adhering to order, the guardsmen took up Loki, his weight easy and light, and tossed him just outside the throne room where he once again went sliding and sprawling across the polished golden floors. Just behind him the doors came to a slamming close, their resonating sound symbolic for finality and the Trickster’s inevitable fate.

Just before the Deceiver lost his consciousness in his weakened state, he saw the shape of a woman, beautiful and frantic, skirting a nearby pillar — and then his world went black.

 The figure Sigyn had been watching with curiosity now lay still, unconscious, on the polished hallway floor, causing her to immediately run to its aid unthinkingly.

As she drew closer, she noticed familiarities in the still body before her. The slim figure, the defined jaw-line and high cheekbones… The unusually pale complexion and the slicked back black hair…

“Loki!” The dark haired Goddess exclaimed, dropping to her knees. It was as though the air had been pulled from her lungs as she looked down upon the unconscious mortal form of her spouse. Her bright blue orbs examined the man before her; checking that he was real, not just a figment of her imagination. Tears escaped her shining eyes, sliding down her cheeks in hot lines. She laughed once, a manic and overwhelmed laugh, filled with delight of her husbands return to Asgard.

Her hands flitted over him, unsure of where to touch him, or if to do so at all. She tried not to take too long in her decision, which ended in her scooping his head into her lap and stroking his soft cheeks with the touch of a feather. Mortal or not, she could not - would not - abandon Loki.

He was so much… better than she remembered. Her memories had faded a little, blurring his features slightly, making them less defined and beautiful. She wanted him so dearly to open his emerald eyes and gaze upon her as he once had.

Certain memories were so sharp in her mind - those containing love, passion and caring words and actions. Others however - such as the terrible affairs regarding the circumstances of their wedding and his deceit - had faded to naught but a speck in the back of her mind.

After a moment or two of doing nothing more than touching his face, caressing him as though he were an illusion that could disappear at any given second, her brow furrowed. It would not do for them to stay in such a place; in the center of a broad golden hallway outside the throne room. Anyone could see them, and she was sure that Loki would not approve of such public displays of affection.

Pulling one arm over her shoulder, Sigyn winced, heaving him up with her when she stood as best she could. She had done quite literally nothing since her spouse left; she was weaker than she remembered. Despite her lack of strength, she carried him back to their bedchamber as best she could, desperate for him to rest in his own bed instead of on the cold, hard and oft walked over floor.

When green eyes came flitting open some-odd hours later, a searing headache rattled Loki’s skull. It was quite unusual — such a feeling — for sickness was exclusive for those who were of mortal descent. Each throb, each pound of stomach-turning pain was a bought of mocking laughter directed at his circumstance. Always the weakest, always little Loki.

When his jade orbs came into focus on the dusky environment, scents and hues of familiarity overwhelmed him and yet still it was all so foreign. Sable drapes strung open over a large window, chairs and a desk of heavy, dark wood, and the soft rustle of summery silken linens against his cold flesh. In another life, it was his home — his chambers, and yet an aroma apart from his own lingered on the sheets of the bed in which he lay, a comforting and gentle scent that he actually enjoyed despite his pained disposition.

Drawing a hand up to his temple and moaning softly, he turned his head so as to rest a cheek against the cool surface of a pillow. It would have been chilling, if his own homeostasis was not as frigid as it was.

“Wh…Where..?” he mumbled, his eyes closing once again as the exhaustion from his journey collided with having his immortality stripped from him and the simple motion of his arm that sapped any energy he might have had straight from his being.

In truth, Loki had expected no less. I had hardly been his choice to return to the realm eternal — for in his travels banishment had been his fate as per each realm that had found him leeching off of their resources. Across the nine realms, Loki had become even more hated — and it became clear that the memories of his brother’s death, let alone the Trickster’s countless other crimes, were not exclusive to Asgard.

In his wandering, the raven-haired god had come to curse the Allfather’s name — and each time that he stopped at a pool of water to bathe or drink, his icy reflection mocked him and, on occasion, provoked a tear to fall silently in mourning for his twisted upbringing and doomed existence.

Cast away at birth, had Odin not come to take him like a thief in the night, Loki would have surely died there, on the steps of Jotunheim — and yet was such a fate any worse than having lived a lie his entire life. The irony of the situation was torture — the King of Deceit having been deceived all his years. It was heart-rending to endure, and so Loki became entirely numb, taking pleasure in the pain of others. His rationale? He would never have the love that his brother possessed — never the acceptance. And so he desired fear, for love was fleeting, full of selfish desires, and yet fear, true fear, lingered until the very moment of death. If there was not a place in Asgard’s heart for Loki — then there was a place in its nightmares.

Presently, his breaths came out ragged and only with much effort as he exhaled the entirety of his question, “Where am I?”

 Sigyn slouched in the armchair that rested in the corner of the bedchamber; her eyes watched her love with a patience not found in many, immortal or otherwise. She had been sitting, waiting for him to awaken, for what seemed like years. Her lids closed, weighing down in her tired state.

Almost as soon as her eyes had closed and her body had started to relax, she heard a faint breath of a question from the man who lay on the bed. She sprang to her feet, energy suddenly replenished, despite having had no sleep at all.

“Loki?” She asked frantically, unsure of what to do or say. She stared down at him in shock, unsure of whether she had imagined it or not. It was only when she noticed the distinct difference in his breathing that she knew he had.

Sigyn’s hands shot to her face, covering her nose and mouth as she let out a loud sob. She was crying again.

“Loki!” She wept, “I feared that I would not see you again!”

Though she was relieved to see him again, she could not help but feel enraged; the feeling slowly simmered and bubbled to the surface. Her tears became angry as well as thankful for his return. How dare he leave her? He just abandoned her without as much as a goodbye. She concluded that it was because he was in a hurry, or at least she had. Now she could only think that it was her coldness; that it was because she did not love him enough that had driven him from her without even a farewell.

Her face changed to bear a look of blind fury, “How dare you?” she demanded, “Thy callousness cost me Valhalla knows how much of my time! How dare you just leave me? Is this who you are, Loki? Do you wed, love, and then abandon your women? Son of Odin or not, thou art not worthy of love if this is what you do!” Of course she understood; of course she knew what had happened; of course she knew that he had no choice but to leave; but it was her love for him that drove her to such a thoughtless outburst.

He looked so fragile, she noted. It was unwise, cold, cruel of her to voice what she did. He looked so frail, so… mortal. She instantly regretted her actions, her thin, delicate hands reaching down to stroke Loki’s face, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love… What have I said? My actions…” she choked back another fitful sob, “My actions were brash and stupid; thoughtless and ignorant… I am so sorry… Please, please forgive me…”

The voice of a woman began not a few feet from him, at first unsure, then enraged, and then soft — all the while riddled with sobs and sorrow. Eyes remaining closed in his state of vulnerability and pain, Loki knit his brows and groaned softly under his breath as she fumed and cried. She said she feared she would not see him again? Had he heard right?

Surely there was not a soul in all of Asgard who wished to look upon his haggard face, now. He could almost feel the hatred that radiated off of each soul in the realm as he merely laid there, each malicious thought burning a hole in his flesh as it was directed at him from some-odd corner of the world.

When he lifted a single lid to glare at the woman who seemed so confused, he flinched softly as he saw her hand coming to caress his face, but was too weak to deny it. Slowly, his eye traced up the arm of the slender figure until it came to rest upon her face — so conflicted and lovely.

In truth, the Trickster had forgotten many faces in the years he was away. His mind thought not of those who inhabited the golden realm who were not the Allfather, his despised brother Thor, or on the occasion, his mother. He directed his visage outright at the woman whose tears stained her aesthetic face. Her cascading black hair and burning blue eyes seemed familiar, and yet in his state of crazed shock, pain, and in the wake of his years of madness spent away from her, he could not put a name to her face.

Her hand was warm against his cheek — a sharp contrast to the sheets all about him that reflected nothing but the cold that he bestowed upon them. No doubt his flesh was cold to her touch, and the radiant heat from her delicate hand caused his skin to bristle and nearly tremble with the pleasure of it.

After a long pause riddled with uneasy silence, Loki uttered the name that suddenly came to the forefront of his mind, his voice quiet in juxtaposition to that of her’s just moments before as she fumed.

“Sigyn.”

Pinching his eyes shut as his head throbbed like crashing thunder, he craned his neck so as to embrace the warmth of her touch, though upon his mouth was a stern frown of stoic nature. Her words, “thou art not worthy of love,” resonated throughout his head and gave him pain worse than that of his mortal circumstance. It was always a question of if he was worthy. The bite of those words jaded him to her apology and he was quick to respond with venom.

“Hold your tongue, woman…” he spat, though his face still pressed into her hand , seeking warmth like some dying animal, though as he opened his mouth to continue his harsh words, he chose instead against it. She had been his wife before his self-assigned exile, and he supposed she still was. She alone had truly loved him — or so she claimed.

“You… needn’t apologize.”

 The harsh tone of Loki’s first words to her made her flinch, his silver tongue as sharp, if not sharper, than she remembered. Her hand held its stead, regardless of his obvious hatred for her. Her thumb traced soft circles on his cheekbone; his cold skin against hers was nothing less than divine.

She stiffened slightly at the softened, weak words he next spoke; “You… needn’t apologize.”

Sigyn leaned closer to him, sitting on the bed beside him. It was cold, frosty with Loki’s cool body temperature… In her flushed state, it took all of her strength to stop herself wrapping her arms around her husband and holding his whole body, “I do… Forgive me, my love… But I do need to…” she breathed, inclining her body down until her warm lips brushed his wintry ear, “I would, and should, apologize for the rest of my pitiful life to you, for how I have treated you…”

Tendrils of her black hair brushed against Loki’s skin as she pulled her head back, the locks hung low over Sigyn’s features as she gazed down, almost timidly, at her spouse’s face. Her skin was quite fair, for an Asgardian, but Loki’s was other-worldly; like untouched Midgardian snow. His green orbs were as she remembered them; beautiful. His thin lips were more appealing than she could recall though, perhaps, she wondered, because of his long absence…

“There  is something about you, my sweet…” she cupped his face with her hands, holding it in place, “That is different… Thou art but mortal…”

Despite her concern, she could not help but relish in every touch she shared with him; every time her skin contacted his, whether on purpose or through accident, she loved. As she was lost in her thoughts, her hand dropped to his neck, her fine fingers trailing over his prominent Adam’s apple.

Allowing curiosity to get the better of her, she started to study every visible section of his pale body, her fingers pulling gently at the skin and massaging the muscles as soothingly as she could. A frown overcame her…

“This… This is not possible! How could this have come to pass, Loki?” She inspected him again, to be sure of what she deduced, “You are truly Midgardian!”

The ghost of a smile passed over Loki’s face as she drew near to him, her lips brushing his sensitive ear as she confessed her guilt. Feelings conflicting in accomplishment at her recourse of words, and of regret for having made her feel so — he erred with his feeling of victory over her and expressed it accordingly, his eyebrows cocking with a satirical aura as his eyes forsook her temporarily.

As her hands ran across his body, tenderly tracing the nuances of his neck and pawing at sore muscles, Loki stirred — the feeling of an affectionate touch foreign to him since his absence, and yet he enjoyed it beneath his facade of knit brows and a stern mouth. His very bones seemed saturated with fatigue and yet altogether empty, for his sudden thrust into the realm of mortality had taken what felt like his very life force from him. He lay there, sick and exhausted, a jotun by blood, and Midgardian by decree of the Allfather himself.

“Punishment,” said he, his eyes following Sigyn’s hands as they moved about his body, “…For Baldr’s murder. I suspect that this will not be the end of it,” he took pause then, finding the strength to reach and arm up and rest a palm over his face, “I would not be surprised if you should find yourself a widow by the time that Odin makes his final decision.”

A cold scowl on his face, he mustered up the energy to rise, his elbow finding its way to the surface of the bed underneath his back and propelling him upward, where his face drew near to Sigyn’s own, and, as he drew near to her he could recall his reasons for his deceit that lead to their wedlock. He could not recall the last time he had seen a sight as lovely as she, even in all his travels across the Worlds Tree — though he dare not say it.

“I suspect they expect me to beg them for forgiveness,” he said, his voice just above a whisper before chuckling under his breath, “and yet even if I was not resolute in my decision and would not undo it for all the love and light in all the realms — there are not words that even I could spin to slake their thirst for my blood.”

 ”A widow?” fresh tears threatened to spill over, but Sigyn swallowed them back down, her pride getting the best of her. In love with him or not, the Goddess of fidelity would not allow Loki to see her cry so freely before him.

The woman touched her forefinger to the point on Loki’s forehead, barely above his nose and between his fine eyebrows, where the faintest of wrinkles appeared when he frowned deeply, “It does you no good, my Midgardian sweet, to frown so.” She replaced her finger with her lips for a brief moment, “I swear to you, my love, that I will do my best to protect you whilst you are in your Midgardian form…”

Though she was not kissing his forehead any longer, she remained close to him; reluctant to pull away. She had been seperated from him for so long and she yearned to just… touch him. Even in the most innocent way of a hug… She just longed to be near him.

“Loki… I…” Though she tried, nothing came to her. She couldn’t so much as voice her feelings. Giving up, she dropped her head so she looked - glared - at her hands, “My apologies, my sweet… I cannot even speak the words I so desire to… Nevertheless, I will not allow you to die. I will die in thy stead if need be, my love.”

As the beautiful feminine image hovered over him, Loki could not help but feel a semblance of affection for her. She was so forlorn — so broken in his presence. He pondered on how she must have spent her days, her nights, in his absence. Perhaps she would wander the halls of Gladsheim in mourning for her loss — maybe she locked herself away in their chambers, never to see the light of day. The thought, much to his chagrin, charmed him. Reluctantly, he accepted her soft touch and kiss without objection and as she offered her protection his face soured to sternness once again.

“I shan’t hide behind a woman,  I —” but as her face dropped to regard her hands and she apologized once again, his words softened and a faint smile played on the corner of his mouth. She was so utterly torn. Surely such sadness could only be for a man she truly cared for. As he pensively paused, his eyes moved fluidly over her curved and attractive form. The scent he had smelled on the sheets of his bed was her’s, and the feeling of familiarity and comfort took him once again. He outright laughed, near silence as it was, but a laugh none the less. The expression shocked him and he took a moment to recompose himself before directing his speech to the lady before him once again.

“Hush,” he said, his forehead making contact with her’s, “If I were so easily slain, I would not be here before you.”

Pressing forward gently he made the contact whole, his icy flesh touching Sigyn’s warm, immortal face, and he resumed, “Give voice to what troubles you. If your desire is not enough to give your words to the air, then let it be the respect of my command that prompts you to do so.”

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

Casting his countenance to the ground, the Allfather heaved a deep sigh.

“You were my son, Loki,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, the gold of the slab over his right eye sparkling as if to allude to the war in which Loki was stolen from his ancestral home.

Exhausted and curt, Loki nearly scoffed at the idea, pushing the cloak off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor entirely as if to show that he stood his ground.

“No. I never was. Tell me, father, when a thief steals, is the object of his transgression really his?”

The words from the jotun that stood at the foot of the dais seemed to ignite something inside of the Allfather that caused his eyes to burn with rage. It was remarkable sometimes how much like Odin Thor was, and how blatantly the similarities showed. Opening his mouth as if to begin on a barrage of heated words, Odin suddenly closed it, instead, coming down the stairs of the dais so that he towered mere inches away from Loki.

If one were to spectate such an event, it would be remarkable how different the two were. Loki, tall, lean, and clothed in garb that adequately matched his pale skin and the dark, dramatic shadows that were cast about his face and brow — and Odin, mastadonic in stature and, though aged as he was, muscular and authoritative. It was quite clear who the snake was between them.

As if to dare him, Loki began to speak, but the words were torn from his very lungs as Odin thundered before him once again, “You must pay for your crimes!” he bellowed, grasping the loose cloth of Loki’s apparel around the neck and pulling him close, “I take from you your power — so that you might not do further harm!”
Casting the scrawny frost giant to the floor of the throne room, Loki’s sudden lack of strength caused him to go sprawling, his limbs weak.

He wanted nothing more than to rise and spit his own venomous words back at the old man, but he was utterly mortal. He had no gift to call on in the magical arts to whisk him away to some other realm — he did not have the vitality that had been given to him when he was made Asgardian. The sudden contrast between eternity and mortality left him gasping for air and weak, and yet he drew his face up to Odin where his green eyes cut like daggers the Einherjar came marching back in at the sound of raised voices and conflict.

“Remove him from my sight. I shall have further words with him… when I have devised the rest of his punishment,” said the Allfather, his visage suddenly one of a weary old man.

Adhering to order, the guardsmen took up Loki, his weight easy and light, and tossed him just outside the throne room where he once again went sliding and sprawling across the polished golden floors. Just behind him the doors came to a slamming close, their resonating sound symbolic for finality and the Trickster’s inevitable fate.

Just before the Deceiver lost his consciousness in his weakened state, he saw the shape of a woman, beautiful and frantic, skirting a nearby pillar — and then his world went black.

 The figure Sigyn had been watching with curiosity now lay still, unconscious, on the polished hallway floor, causing her to immediately run to its aid unthinkingly.

As she drew closer, she noticed familiarities in the still body before her. The slim figure, the defined jaw-line and high cheekbones… The unusually pale complexion and the slicked back black hair…

“Loki!” The dark haired Goddess exclaimed, dropping to her knees. It was as though the air had been pulled from her lungs as she looked down upon the unconscious mortal form of her spouse. Her bright blue orbs examined the man before her; checking that he was real, not just a figment of her imagination. Tears escaped her shining eyes, sliding down her cheeks in hot lines. She laughed once, a manic and overwhelmed laugh, filled with delight of her husbands return to Asgard.

Her hands flitted over him, unsure of where to touch him, or if to do so at all. She tried not to take too long in her decision, which ended in her scooping his head into her lap and stroking his soft cheeks with the touch of a feather. Mortal or not, she could not - would not - abandon Loki.

He was so much… better than she remembered. Her memories had faded a little, blurring his features slightly, making them less defined and beautiful. She wanted him so dearly to open his emerald eyes and gaze upon her as he once had.

Certain memories were so sharp in her mind - those containing love, passion and caring words and actions. Others however - such as the terrible affairs regarding the circumstances of their wedding and his deceit - had faded to naught but a speck in the back of her mind.

After a moment or two of doing nothing more than touching his face, caressing him as though he were an illusion that could disappear at any given second, her brow furrowed. It would not do for them to stay in such a place; in the center of a broad golden hallway outside the throne room. Anyone could see them, and she was sure that Loki would not approve of such public displays of affection.

Pulling one arm over her shoulder, Sigyn winced, heaving him up with her when she stood as best she could. She had done quite literally nothing since her spouse left; she was weaker than she remembered. Despite her lack of strength, she carried him back to their bedchamber as best she could, desperate for him to rest in his own bed instead of on the cold, hard and oft walked over floor.

When green eyes came flitting open some-odd hours later, a searing headache rattled Loki’s skull. It was quite unusual — such a feeling — for sickness was exclusive for those who were of mortal descent. Each throb, each pound of stomach-turning pain was a bought of mocking laughter directed at his circumstance. Always the weakest, always little Loki.

When his jade orbs came into focus on the dusky environment, scents and hues of familiarity overwhelmed him and yet still it was all so foreign. Sable drapes strung open over a large window, chairs and a desk of heavy, dark wood, and the soft rustle of summery silken linens against his cold flesh. In another life, it was his home — his chambers, and yet an aroma apart from his own lingered on the sheets of the bed in which he lay, a comforting and gentle scent that he actually enjoyed despite his pained disposition.

Drawing a hand up to his temple and moaning softly, he turned his head so as to rest a cheek against the cool surface of a pillow. It would have been chilling, if his own homeostasis was not as frigid as it was.

“Wh…Where..?” he mumbled, his eyes closing once again as the exhaustion from his journey collided with having his immortality stripped from him and the simple motion of his arm that sapped any energy he might have had straight from his being.

In truth, Loki had expected no less. I had hardly been his choice to return to the realm eternal — for in his travels banishment had been his fate as per each realm that had found him leeching off of their resources. Across the nine realms, Loki had become even more hated — and it became clear that the memories of his brother’s death, let alone the Trickster’s countless other crimes, were not exclusive to Asgard.

In his wandering, the raven-haired god had come to curse the Allfather’s name — and each time that he stopped at a pool of water to bathe or drink, his icy reflection mocked him and, on occasion, provoked a tear to fall silently in mourning for his twisted upbringing and doomed existence.

Cast away at birth, had Odin not come to take him like a thief in the night, Loki would have surely died there, on the steps of Jotunheim — and yet was such a fate any worse than having lived a lie his entire life. The irony of the situation was torture — the King of Deceit having been deceived all his years. It was heart-rending to endure, and so Loki became entirely numb, taking pleasure in the pain of others. His rationale? He would never have the love that his brother possessed — never the acceptance. And so he desired fear, for love was fleeting, full of selfish desires, and yet fear, true fear, lingered until the very moment of death. If there was not a place in Asgard’s heart for Loki — then there was a place in its nightmares.

Presently, his breaths came out ragged and only with much effort as he exhaled the entirety of his question, “Where am I?”

 Sigyn slouched in the armchair that rested in the corner of the bedchamber; her eyes watched her love with a patience not found in many, immortal or otherwise. She had been sitting, waiting for him to awaken, for what seemed like years. Her lids closed, weighing down in her tired state.

Almost as soon as her eyes had closed and her body had started to relax, she heard a faint breath of a question from the man who lay on the bed. She sprang to her feet, energy suddenly replenished, despite having had no sleep at all.

“Loki?” She asked frantically, unsure of what to do or say. She stared down at him in shock, unsure of whether she had imagined it or not. It was only when she noticed the distinct difference in his breathing that she knew he had.

Sigyn’s hands shot to her face, covering her nose and mouth as she let out a loud sob. She was crying again.

“Loki!” She wept, “I feared that I would not see you again!”

Though she was relieved to see him again, she could not help but feel enraged; the feeling slowly simmered and bubbled to the surface. Her tears became angry as well as thankful for his return. How dare he leave her? He just abandoned her without as much as a goodbye. She concluded that it was because he was in a hurry, or at least she had. Now she could only think that it was her coldness; that it was because she did not love him enough that had driven him from her without even a farewell.

Her face changed to bear a look of blind fury, “How dare you?” she demanded, “Thy callousness cost me Valhalla knows how much of my time! How dare you just leave me? Is this who you are, Loki? Do you wed, love, and then abandon your women? Son of Odin or not, thou art not worthy of love if this is what you do!” Of course she understood; of course she knew what had happened; of course she knew that he had no choice but to leave; but it was her love for him that drove her to such a thoughtless outburst.

He looked so fragile, she noted. It was unwise, cold, cruel of her to voice what she did. He looked so frail, so… mortal. She instantly regretted her actions, her thin, delicate hands reaching down to stroke Loki’s face, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love… What have I said? My actions…” she choked back another fitful sob, “My actions were brash and stupid; thoughtless and ignorant… I am so sorry… Please, please forgive me…”

The voice of a woman began not a few feet from him, at first unsure, then enraged, and then soft — all the while riddled with sobs and sorrow. Eyes remaining closed in his state of vulnerability and pain, Loki knit his brows and groaned softly under his breath as she fumed and cried. She said she feared she would not see him again? Had he heard right?

Surely there was not a soul in all of Asgard who wished to look upon his haggard face, now. He could almost feel the hatred that radiated off of each soul in the realm as he merely laid there, each malicious thought burning a hole in his flesh as it was directed at him from some-odd corner of the world.

When he lifted a single lid to glare at the woman who seemed so confused, he flinched softly as he saw her hand coming to caress his face, but was too weak to deny it. Slowly, his eye traced up the arm of the slender figure until it came to rest upon her face — so conflicted and lovely.

In truth, the Trickster had forgotten many faces in the years he was away. His mind thought not of those who inhabited the golden realm who were not the Allfather, his despised brother Thor, or on the occasion, his mother. He directed his visage outright at the woman whose tears stained her aesthetic face. Her cascading black hair and burning blue eyes seemed familiar, and yet in his state of crazed shock, pain, and in the wake of his years of madness spent away from her, he could not put a name to her face.

Her hand was warm against his cheek — a sharp contrast to the sheets all about him that reflected nothing but the cold that he bestowed upon them. No doubt his flesh was cold to her touch, and the radiant heat from her delicate hand caused his skin to bristle and nearly tremble with the pleasure of it.

After a long pause riddled with uneasy silence, Loki uttered the name that suddenly came to the forefront of his mind, his voice quiet in juxtaposition to that of her’s just moments before as she fumed.

“Sigyn.”

Pinching his eyes shut as his head throbbed like crashing thunder, he craned his neck so as to embrace the warmth of her touch, though upon his mouth was a stern frown of stoic nature. Her words, “thou art not worthy of love,” resonated throughout his head and gave him pain worse than that of his mortal circumstance. It was always a question of if he was worthy. The bite of those words jaded him to her apology and he was quick to respond with venom.

“Hold your tongue, woman…” he spat, though his face still pressed into her hand , seeking warmth like some dying animal, though as he opened his mouth to continue his harsh words, he chose instead against it. She had been his wife before his self-assigned exile, and he supposed she still was. She alone had truly loved him — or so she claimed.

“You… needn’t apologize.”

 The harsh tone of Loki’s first words to her made her flinch, his silver tongue as sharp, if not sharper, than she remembered. Her hand held its stead, regardless of his obvious hatred for her. Her thumb traced soft circles on his cheekbone; his cold skin against hers was nothing less than divine.

She stiffened slightly at the softened, weak words he next spoke; “You… needn’t apologize.”

Sigyn leaned closer to him, sitting on the bed beside him. It was cold, frosty with Loki’s cool body temperature… In her flushed state, it took all of her strength to stop herself wrapping her arms around her husband and holding his whole body, “I do… Forgive me, my love… But I do need to…” she breathed, inclining her body down until her warm lips brushed his wintry ear, “I would, and should, apologize for the rest of my pitiful life to you, for how I have treated you…”

Tendrils of her black hair brushed against Loki’s skin as she pulled her head back, the locks hung low over Sigyn’s features as she gazed down, almost timidly, at her spouse’s face. Her skin was quite fair, for an Asgardian, but Loki’s was other-worldly; like untouched Midgardian snow. His green orbs were as she remembered them; beautiful. His thin lips were more appealing than she could recall though, perhaps, she wondered, because of his long absence…

“There  is something about you, my sweet…” she cupped his face with her hands, holding it in place, “That is different… Thou art but mortal…”

Despite her concern, she could not help but relish in every touch she shared with him; every time her skin contacted his, whether on purpose or through accident, she loved. As she was lost in her thoughts, her hand dropped to his neck, her fine fingers trailing over his prominent Adam’s apple.

Allowing curiosity to get the better of her, she started to study every visible section of his pale body, her fingers pulling gently at the skin and massaging the muscles as soothingly as she could. A frown overcame her…

“This… This is not possible! How could this have come to pass, Loki?” She inspected him again, to be sure of what she deduced, “You are truly Midgardian!”

The ghost of a smile passed over Loki’s face as she drew near to him, her lips brushing his sensitive ear as she confessed her guilt. Feelings conflicting in accomplishment at her recourse of words, and of regret for having made her feel so — he erred with his feeling of victory over her and expressed it accordingly, his eyebrows cocking with a satirical aura as his eyes forsook her temporarily.

As her hands ran across his body, tenderly tracing the nuances of his neck and pawing at sore muscles, Loki stirred — the feeling of an affectionate touch foreign to him since his absence, and yet he enjoyed it beneath his facade of knit brows and a stern mouth. His very bones seemed saturated with fatigue and yet altogether empty, for his sudden thrust into the realm of mortality had taken what felt like his very life force from him. He lay there, sick and exhausted, a jotun by blood, and Midgardian by decree of the Allfather himself.

“Punishment,” said he, his eyes following Sigyn’s hands as they moved about his body, “…For Baldr’s murder. I suspect that this will not be the end of it,” he took pause then, finding the strength to reach and arm up and rest a palm over his face, “I would not be surprised if you should find yourself a widow by the time that Odin makes his final decision.”

A cold scowl on his face, he mustered up the energy to rise, his elbow finding its way to the surface of the bed underneath his back and propelling him upward, where his face drew near to Sigyn’s own, and, as he drew near to her he could recall his reasons for his deceit that lead to their wedlock. He could not recall the last time he had seen a sight as lovely as she, even in all his travels across the Worlds Tree — though he dare not say it.

“I suspect they expect me to beg them for forgiveness,” he said, his voice just above a whisper before chuckling under his breath, “and yet even if I was not resolute in my decision and would not undo it for all the love and light in all the realms — there are not words that even I could spin to slake their thirst for my blood.”

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

Quietness. Not a single sound could be heard. Lady Frigga sat alone in the bed chamber that she shared with the all-father. It had been several days since she had barricaded herself in the room, refusing to leave, refusing to eat. Several days since the return of Loki. Her son.

Loki’s…

When the Queen of Asgard found the tall, gaunt man known she had adopted as her son, he was seated casually upon a stone bench that was placed aesthetically beneath the towering statues of famed Valhallan warriors that held up long arches, constructing an outdoor hall connecting one point of Gladsheim with another. Crooked in his lap was a thick book, pages yellowed and partially torn in select places, he appeared serene, though dark as he was, his face was downcast and his eyes hooded in a state of concentration. His legs were crosses and his shoulders pushed back in princely posture — giving him an air of tension though he seemed to be spending time towards relaxation.

He was pensive over his text, though he could hear the footfalls of his mother as she neared. He needn’t hear her speak to know what was to come. Surely yet another heated word and angrily drawn brow awaited him, and he silently cursed her for approaching him.

When Frigga’s eyes fixed on Loki, everything she had rehearsed in her head melted away. She froze. It truly was a bittersweet moment. Unexpectedly, she was happy to see him, but a part of her was angry, and hostile. The two emotions conflicted inside of her violently. 

She opened her mouth to let out a stern greeting, a harsh “How could you show your face here?” but nothing came out. She couldn’t speak. She was legitimately speechless.

Instead, she knelt before him, and took him into her arms, hugging him tightly, wordless. Tears rolled down her cheeks steadily as she held her son. Tears of happiness mixed with tears of guilt. She felt guilty that she was so happy to see him. Guilty that she was embracing Baldr’s murderer.

Having expected his mother to shower him with sharp, cutting words, Loki nearly gasped aloud as her arms snaked around him and pulled him into an embrace. In the early years of his life, while he was always on the forefront of blame and neglect by means of his father — Loki had always found solace in the warm, comforting words of his mother. Of course, such a trait gave rise to another string of insults from the other children of the court, their high-pitched voices jeering little things like, “run back to your mother, Loki!”

In truth, when Loki had tricked Hoder into that fateful throw of the mistletoe branch, Frigga had been far from his conscious mind. His thoughts surrounded only the prophecy of the norn witches, who told of songs that would be sung of him — his name being known throughout all the nine realms. The possibility of recognition, of finally having the place he deserved in the halls of history… even if it meant playing the villain.

Her tears were hot against the nape of his neck as Frigga held him, and whatever words he had formulated to hiss and spit at his mother with venomous intent had been thrown to the winds. It took him a goodly while to recall his visage of composure, his eyes returning from their widened state.

“Mother…” he began, his voice soft before hardening along with his heart, “…What is it that you want from me?”

His arms remained slack in his lap, holding his book with tense fingers that mirrored the sudden discomfort that radiated throughout his being, and his back arced like a feline’s under the weight of his mother as she hung from him.

Frigga broke the embrace and stared into her son’s sharp green eyes. The stress of the past few years was obvious upon his face. His eyes, which were usually a radiant green, were dull and tired. To her, he seemed even more pale and gaunt than the last time she saw him, and even more frail. He look like a sickly mortal. Exhausted and weak.

“How could you hurt me?” She started, her voice trembling. “I took you in, and raised you as if you were my blood child…”

She raised from the ground and repositioned herself on the bench next to Loki.

“I was robbed of one son that day, and lost another…”

That was all she could manage to get out. No other words came to mind. So she sat there silently, waiting for answers, and know that it was unlikely that she would get any.

Sighing inwardly as his mother broke her embrace and came to sit beside him, Loki took a moment to gather his patience. It had been the first time since his arrival in Asgard that he had left his chambers, and it was uncanny how accurate his prediction of his first interaction would be. No doubt Frigga expected him to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness — admit to his crimes and his regret for them and suffer in eternity for them. However, in truth, Loki would have done it a thousand times over. While he did not relish his brother’s death and the prophecy of Ragnarok slowly setting in motion, he would not have done it any other way. He would have usurped all of the mistletoe in all the nine realms to have Baldr slain if that was what it took.

He would not shed a tear for his brother, nor for his mother. He was Loki — and Loki cried but briefly and only for himself.

“Do you wish the truth, or do you wish pleasant nothings regarding my everlasting turmoil for Baldr’s death? For,” he paused to inhale deeply and crack open his book once more, his eyes intent on the words scrawled there rather than his mother’s pained face, “lies I can supply for you. In abundance.”

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

The light of the day fading slowly as mountains and towers of the eternal realm devoured it — night fell upon the golden city of Asgard. Birds and insects sounded their calls as the bustle of the streets came to a lesser volume as people bid one another farewell and entered their homes for the night, suppers being cleared from tables, and mothers kissing their children goodnight. The air smelled of moisture and young starlight — lending the atmosphere a pleasant feeling in the wake of midsummer heat.

As stars peeked out from behind their cosmic curtain, the light of the rainbow bridge sparkled and glistened against the now-matte surface of the waters beneath it. And, in the midst of the perfect summertime nightscape, something seemed amiss.  Some darkness lent its discomfort to the air about the rainbow bridge, and as if the notion of malevolent nature was acknowledged by the very air, a shape materialized, dark and hunched — breathing only with much labor and quickly falling to it’s knees. The figure was that of a man, enshrouded in a mantle of furs.

The man had wandered the nine realms aimlessly in flight from his father — each world rejecting him as the last had, and in his journey his mind had only time with itself. His silver tongue had not spoken a word since his day of departure from the golden realm, but rather, his twisted thoughts were kept within, fermenting and folding in on themselves, amplifying and convoluting until they were monstrously enlarged reflections of their original selves. The memories of his slain brother, and the heat of his funeral pyre were still fresh in his mind, regardless of how many years had passed since their occurrence.

Guards raced up to the trespasser, lances and halberds cocked and at the ready, and yet as they neared the doubled over silhouette, their eyes drew them to a grinding halt. Emerging from the hood of the collage of furs that made up the cloak was a pair of golden horns — curving upward and gleaming the mocking reflection of the dying sun.

“The Deceiver returns…” the first guard said, looking up to his opposite as, crouched over the enshrouded figure, he touched a fingertip to one of the blazing horns, “Inform the court.”

 In a large, grand bedchamber, one which used to belong to her beloved, Sigyn lay. She was sprawled out across the bed, her eyes boring holes into the ceiling with her dead glare. Since Loki had gone, she had found no reason to be merry.

No reason she found for her to move or keep herself at her best. Her love, or so the one she had come to love, was not with her any longer.

Instead? Instead she flopped about the room she had shared with her husband once upon a time. Even the scent of her sweet, mischievous God had faded out of the sheets, and she could no longer even find comfort in her depression. Much less, peace…

“My lady!” A frantic knocking on the bedchamber door startled her, bringing her immediately to her feet before realising it was just a guard. She strode over to answer, nevertheless.

Her icy blue eyes scanned the guard upon the tall, golden door opening, “Guard… What is it that troubles you so?” She was still polite to those she spoke to, despite everything.

“Loki!” he gasped, sounding out of breath, “He returns, Lady Sigyn! Loki has returned! You are require-“

She had not even given him the time to finish before she was rushing herself to the throne room. 

The doors to the throne room burst open with power and volume, a troupe of Einherjar all clad in loud armor and pikestaffs came marching in, their formation almost circular though amoebic as it was. The golden room had seemed so serene, so silent, as the Allfather sat at the ready upon his towering throne, and yet the thickness of apprehension hung all throughout its air like a sickly humidity.

The news of the return of the most-hated of the gods was not well received — and it was unfortunate that the messenger that preceded the troupe that presently entered came only a short while before the doors came crashing open and the bustle of footfalls became cacophonous and deafening. There must have been twenty Einherjar surrounding that cloaked figure that walked slowly and laboriously in the centre of the ring.

Even from between the shoulders and helms of the Asgardian guardsmen, the two peeking golden horns seemed to be all the confirmation that Odin needed. Loki.

“My Lord…” said the Einherjar at the forefront of the circle as they came to a clattering halt at the foot of the dais upon which sat the imperial throne of Asgard, “Your son… “

The guardsman ended his awkward introduction with a bow that was both hesitant and unsure. Was the Deceiver really worth such formality after his deeds?

Suddenly, the guardsman was not alone, standing before the assembly of other militants. The hooded figure materialized just behind him, his face hidden by shadow but for the faintest hue of pale flesh that outlined the silhouette of his gaunt face. Turning round, the Einherjar drew his spear at the ready, but Odin called out his deep baritone voice before contact could be made.

“Stop. Leave us,” he commanded, his voice beginning on a note of severity and ending on one of acquiescence.

The troupe obeyed reluctantly, making uneasy eye contact with one another before slinking out of the throne room like a flock of cautious dogs. Once alone, the Allfather stood from his seated pose, assuming an air of ultimate power fitful only for a king of such a domain as he possessed.

“You have committed the most heinous of crimes, Odinson,” he said, his voice quiet in volume and yet still booming and thunderous.

The hooded figure remained silent at first, a tiny glint of reflected light betraying that he smiled beneath his furry veil. He seemed to mock the king of kings in his own hall.
“You have spilled blood on hallowed ground — stained the honor of my home, of my name!” he continued, his voice growing in volume and the sheer power of his words causing the very architecture to tremble, “Have you nothing to say in defense of your actions? Have you no reason for such treachery?”

Shrugging softly, the Trickster reached up and pulled back his hood, his eyes revealing to be locked upon his pseudo-father, and glaring their green hues as if they were made of ice. His mouth was twisted into a sickly grin and his cheeks were sallow and thin. He appeared haggard — emaciated, even. His journey clear upon his face, and upon his posture.

“If you wish a pretty word — seek out someone willing to give you one. I’ve nothing to say to you,” he hissed.

 Sigyn hurried down the halls, desperate to reach Loki. Oh how she had missed him so… She had not thought it possible to miss someone quite so dearly as she had done until it happened to her, and she had expected much less that she be the one to feel pain when he left… It was true then, that in a sense, a being only knew what it had when it was gone.

In Loki’s absence, Sigyn had thought a number of ways in which to search for him, and several places she thought she may find him. None of course were successful in helping her, even with her thinking so much as asking Ratatosk for help, as he ran up and down the tree frequently and therefore much see so much of the many realms.

Now she was mere minutes from him. She could feel the excitement and anticipation building inside her, making her shaky as she ran.

She longed to see him again, but she knew that the All-Father would not greet him with open arms, and was likely to either hold a court or make a decision that Sigyn could not agree with, but was bound by oath not to disagree with. It pained her sometimes that Loki was not favoured by other Asgardians.

Onwards she ran, as fast as she could. She sprinted down the halls, her long black hair, unbrushed and left uncut for so long, reaching out in a yawn behind her.

Hurtling around another golden pillar, she could see a figure leaving the throne room.

Casting his countenance to the ground, the Allfather heaved a deep sigh.

“You were my son, Loki,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, the gold of the slab over his right eye sparkling as if to allude to the war in which Loki was stolen from his ancestral home.

Exhausted and curt, Loki nearly scoffed at the idea, pushing the cloak off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor entirely as if to show that he stood his ground.

“No. I never was. Tell me, father, when a thief steals, is the object of his transgression really his?”

The words from the jotun that stood at the foot of the dais seemed to ignite something inside of the Allfather that caused his eyes to burn with rage. It was remarkable sometimes how much like Odin Thor was, and how blatantly the similarities showed. Opening his mouth as if to begin on a barrage of heated words, Odin suddenly closed it, instead, coming down the stairs of the dais so that he towered mere inches away from Loki.

If one were to spectate such an event, it would be remarkable how different the two were. Loki, tall, lean, and clothed in garb that adequately matched his pale skin and the dark, dramatic shadows that were cast about his face and brow — and Odin, mastadonic in stature and, though aged as he was, muscular and authoritative. It was quite clear who the snake was between them.

As if to dare him, Loki began to speak, but the words were torn from his very lungs as Odin thundered before him once again, “You must pay for your crimes!” he bellowed, grasping the loose cloth of Loki’s apparel around the neck and pulling him close, “I take from you your power — so that you might not do further harm!”
Casting the scrawny frost giant to the floor of the throne room, Loki’s sudden lack of strength caused him to go sprawling, his limbs weak.

He wanted nothing more than to rise and spit his own venomous words back at the old man, but he was utterly mortal. He had no gift to call on in the magical arts to whisk him away to some other realm — he did not have the vitality that had been given to him when he was made Asgardian. The sudden contrast between eternity and mortality left him gasping for air and weak, and yet he drew his face up to Odin where his green eyes cut like daggers the Einherjar came marching back in at the sound of raised voices and conflict.

“Remove him from my sight. I shall have further words with him… when I have devised the rest of his punishment,” said the Allfather, his visage suddenly one of a weary old man.

Adhering to order, the guardsmen took up Loki, his weight easy and light, and tossed him just outside the throne room where he once again went sliding and sprawling across the polished golden floors. Just behind him the doors came to a slamming close, their resonating sound symbolic for finality and the Trickster’s inevitable fate.

Just before the Deceiver lost his consciousness in his weakened state, he saw the shape of a woman, beautiful and frantic, skirting a nearby pillar — and then his world went black.

 The figure Sigyn had been watching with curiosity now lay still, unconscious, on the polished hallway floor, causing her to immediately run to its aid unthinkingly.

As she drew closer, she noticed familiarities in the still body before her. The slim figure, the defined jaw-line and high cheekbones… The unusually pale complexion and the slicked back black hair…

“Loki!” The dark haired Goddess exclaimed, dropping to her knees. It was as though the air had been pulled from her lungs as she looked down upon the unconscious mortal form of her spouse. Her bright blue orbs examined the man before her; checking that he was real, not just a figment of her imagination. Tears escaped her shining eyes, sliding down her cheeks in hot lines. She laughed once, a manic and overwhelmed laugh, filled with delight of her husbands return to Asgard.

Her hands flitted over him, unsure of where to touch him, or if to do so at all. She tried not to take too long in her decision, which ended in her scooping his head into her lap and stroking his soft cheeks with the touch of a feather. Mortal or not, she could not - would not - abandon Loki.

He was so much… better than she remembered. Her memories had faded a little, blurring his features slightly, making them less defined and beautiful. She wanted him so dearly to open his emerald eyes and gaze upon her as he once had.

Certain memories were so sharp in her mind - those containing love, passion and caring words and actions. Others however - such as the terrible affairs regarding the circumstances of their wedding and his deceit - had faded to naught but a speck in the back of her mind.

After a moment or two of doing nothing more than touching his face, caressing him as though he were an illusion that could disappear at any given second, her brow furrowed. It would not do for them to stay in such a place; in the center of a broad golden hallway outside the throne room. Anyone could see them, and she was sure that Loki would not approve of such public displays of affection.

Pulling one arm over her shoulder, Sigyn winced, heaving him up with her when she stood as best she could. She had done quite literally nothing since her spouse left; she was weaker than she remembered. Despite her lack of strength, she carried him back to their bedchamber as best she could, desperate for him to rest in his own bed instead of on the cold, hard and oft walked over floor.

When green eyes came flitting open some-odd hours later, a searing headache rattled Loki’s skull. It was quite unusual — such a feeling — for sickness was exclusive for those who were of mortal descent. Each throb, each pound of stomach-turning pain was a bought of mocking laughter directed at his circumstance. Always the weakest, always little Loki.

When his jade orbs came into focus on the dusky environment, scents and hues of familiarity overwhelmed him and yet still it was all so foreign. Sable drapes strung open over a large window, chairs and a desk of heavy, dark wood, and the soft rustle of summery silken linens against his cold flesh. In another life, it was his home — his chambers, and yet an aroma apart from his own lingered on the sheets of the bed in which he lay, a comforting and gentle scent that he actually enjoyed despite his pained disposition.

Drawing a hand up to his temple and moaning softly, he turned his head so as to rest a cheek against the cool surface of a pillow. It would have been chilling, if his own homeostasis was not as frigid as it was.

“Wh…Where..?” he mumbled, his eyes closing once again as the exhaustion from his journey collided with having his immortality stripped from him and the simple motion of his arm that sapped any energy he might have had straight from his being.

In truth, Loki had expected no less. I had hardly been his choice to return to the realm eternal — for in his travels banishment had been his fate as per each realm that had found him leeching off of their resources. Across the nine realms, Loki had become even more hated — and it became clear that the memories of his brother’s death, let alone the Trickster’s countless other crimes, were not exclusive to Asgard.

In his wandering, the raven-haired god had come to curse the Allfather’s name — and each time that he stopped at a pool of water to bathe or drink, his icy reflection mocked him and, on occasion, provoked a tear to fall silently in mourning for his twisted upbringing and doomed existence.

Cast away at birth, had Odin not come to take him like a thief in the night, Loki would have surely died there, on the steps of Jotunheim — and yet was such a fate any worse than having lived a lie his entire life. The irony of the situation was torture — the King of Deceit having been deceived all his years. It was heart-rending to endure, and so Loki became entirely numb, taking pleasure in the pain of others. His rationale? He would never have the love that his brother possessed — never the acceptance. And so he desired fear, for love was fleeting, full of selfish desires, and yet fear, true fear, lingered until the very moment of death. If there was not a place in Asgard’s heart for Loki — then there was a place in its nightmares.

Presently, his breaths came out ragged and only with much effort as he exhaled the entirety of his question, “Where am I?”

 Sigyn slouched in the armchair that rested in the corner of the bedchamber; her eyes watched her love with a patience not found in many, immortal or otherwise. She had been sitting, waiting for him to awaken, for what seemed like years. Her lids closed, weighing down in her tired state.

Almost as soon as her eyes had closed and her body had started to relax, she heard a faint breath of a question from the man who lay on the bed. She sprang to her feet, energy suddenly replenished, despite having had no sleep at all.

“Loki?” She asked frantically, unsure of what to do or say. She stared down at him in shock, unsure of whether she had imagined it or not. It was only when she noticed the distinct difference in his breathing that she knew he had.

Sigyn’s hands shot to her face, covering her nose and mouth as she let out a loud sob. She was crying again.

“Loki!” She wept, “I feared that I would not see you again!”

Though she was relieved to see him again, she could not help but feel enraged; the feeling slowly simmered and bubbled to the surface. Her tears became angry as well as thankful for his return. How dare he leave her? He just abandoned her without as much as a goodbye. She concluded that it was because he was in a hurry, or at least she had. Now she could only think that it was her coldness; that it was because she did not love him enough that had driven him from her without even a farewell.

Her face changed to bear a look of blind fury, “How dare you?” she demanded, “Thy callousness cost me Valhalla knows how much of my time! How dare you just leave me? Is this who you are, Loki? Do you wed, love, and then abandon your women? Son of Odin or not, thou art not worthy of love if this is what you do!” Of course she understood; of course she knew what had happened; of course she knew that he had no choice but to leave; but it was her love for him that drove her to such a thoughtless outburst.

He looked so fragile, she noted. It was unwise, cold, cruel of her to voice what she did. He looked so frail, so… mortal. She instantly regretted her actions, her thin, delicate hands reaching down to stroke Loki’s face, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love… What have I said? My actions…” she choked back another fitful sob, “My actions were brash and stupid; thoughtless and ignorant… I am so sorry… Please, please forgive me…”

The voice of a woman began not a few feet from him, at first unsure, then enraged, and then soft — all the while riddled with sobs and sorrow. Eyes remaining closed in his state of vulnerability and pain, Loki knit his brows and groaned softly under his breath as she fumed and cried. She said she feared she would not see him again? Had he heard right?

Surely there was not a soul in all of Asgard who wished to look upon his haggard face, now. He could almost feel the hatred that radiated off of each soul in the realm as he merely laid there, each malicious thought burning a hole in his flesh as it was directed at him from some-odd corner of the world.

When he lifted a single lid to glare at the woman who seemed so confused, he flinched softly as he saw her hand coming to caress his face, but was too weak to deny it. Slowly, his eye traced up the arm of the slender figure until it came to rest upon her face — so conflicted and lovely.

In truth, the Trickster had forgotten many faces in the years he was away. His mind thought not of those who inhabited the golden realm who were not the Allfather, his despised brother Thor, or on the occasion, his mother. He directed his visage outright at the woman whose tears stained her aesthetic face. Her cascading black hair and burning blue eyes seemed familiar, and yet in his state of crazed shock, pain, and in the wake of his years of madness spent away from her, he could not put a name to her face.

Her hand was warm against his cheek — a sharp contrast to the sheets all about him that reflected nothing but the cold that he bestowed upon them. No doubt his flesh was cold to her touch, and the radiant heat from her delicate hand caused his skin to bristle and nearly tremble with the pleasure of it.

After a long pause riddled with uneasy silence, Loki uttered the name that suddenly came to the forefront of his mind, his voice quiet in juxtaposition to that of her’s just moments before as she fumed.

“Sigyn.”

Pinching his eyes shut as his head throbbed like crashing thunder, he craned his neck so as to embrace the warmth of her touch, though upon his mouth was a stern frown of stoic nature. Her words, “thou art not worthy of love,” resonated throughout his head and gave him pain worse than that of his mortal circumstance. It was always a question of if he was worthy. The bite of those words jaded him to her apology and he was quick to respond with venom.

“Hold your tongue, woman…” he spat, though his face still pressed into her hand , seeking warmth like some dying animal, though as he opened his mouth to continue his harsh words, he chose instead against it. She had been his wife before his self-assigned exile, and he supposed she still was. She alone had truly loved him — or so she claimed.

“You… needn’t apologize.”

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

The light of the day fading slowly as mountains and towers of the eternal realm devoured it — night fell upon the golden city of Asgard. Birds and insects sounded their calls as the bustle of the streets came to a lesser volume as people bid one another farewell and entered their homes for the night, suppers being cleared from tables, and mothers kissing their children goodnight. The air smelled of moisture and young starlight — lending the atmosphere a pleasant feeling in the wake of midsummer heat.

As stars peeked out from behind their cosmic curtain, the light of the rainbow bridge sparkled and glistened against the now-matte surface of the waters beneath it. And, in the midst of the perfect summertime nightscape, something seemed amiss.  Some darkness lent its discomfort to the air about the rainbow bridge, and as if the notion of malevolent nature was acknowledged by the very air, a shape materialized, dark and hunched — breathing only with much labor and quickly falling to it’s knees. The figure was that of a man, enshrouded in a mantle of furs.

The man had wandered the nine realms aimlessly in flight from his father — each world rejecting him as the last had, and in his journey his mind had only time with itself. His silver tongue had not spoken a word since his day of departure from the golden realm, but rather, his twisted thoughts were kept within, fermenting and folding in on themselves, amplifying and convoluting until they were monstrously enlarged reflections of their original selves. The memories of his slain brother, and the heat of his funeral pyre were still fresh in his mind, regardless of how many years had passed since their occurrence.

Guards raced up to the trespasser, lances and halberds cocked and at the ready, and yet as they neared the doubled over silhouette, their eyes drew them to a grinding halt. Emerging from the hood of the collage of furs that made up the cloak was a pair of golden horns — curving upward and gleaming the mocking reflection of the dying sun.

“The Deceiver returns…” the first guard said, looking up to his opposite as, crouched over the enshrouded figure, he touched a fingertip to one of the blazing horns, “Inform the court.”

 In a large, grand bedchamber, one which used to belong to her beloved, Sigyn lay. She was sprawled out across the bed, her eyes boring holes into the ceiling with her dead glare. Since Loki had gone, she had found no reason to be merry.

No reason she found for her to move or keep herself at her best. Her love, or so the one she had come to love, was not with her any longer.

Instead? Instead she flopped about the room she had shared with her husband once upon a time. Even the scent of her sweet, mischievous God had faded out of the sheets, and she could no longer even find comfort in her depression. Much less, peace…

“My lady!” A frantic knocking on the bedchamber door startled her, bringing her immediately to her feet before realising it was just a guard. She strode over to answer, nevertheless.

Her icy blue eyes scanned the guard upon the tall, golden door opening, “Guard… What is it that troubles you so?” She was still polite to those she spoke to, despite everything.

“Loki!” he gasped, sounding out of breath, “He returns, Lady Sigyn! Loki has returned! You are require-“

She had not even given him the time to finish before she was rushing herself to the throne room. 

The doors to the throne room burst open with power and volume, a troupe of Einherjar all clad in loud armor and pikestaffs came marching in, their formation almost circular though amoebic as it was. The golden room had seemed so serene, so silent, as the Allfather sat at the ready upon his towering throne, and yet the thickness of apprehension hung all throughout its air like a sickly humidity.

The news of the return of the most-hated of the gods was not well received — and it was unfortunate that the messenger that preceded the troupe that presently entered came only a short while before the doors came crashing open and the bustle of footfalls became cacophonous and deafening. There must have been twenty Einherjar surrounding that cloaked figure that walked slowly and laboriously in the centre of the ring.

Even from between the shoulders and helms of the Asgardian guardsmen, the two peeking golden horns seemed to be all the confirmation that Odin needed. Loki.

“My Lord…” said the Einherjar at the forefront of the circle as they came to a clattering halt at the foot of the dais upon which sat the imperial throne of Asgard, “Your son… “

The guardsman ended his awkward introduction with a bow that was both hesitant and unsure. Was the Deceiver really worth such formality after his deeds?

Suddenly, the guardsman was not alone, standing before the assembly of other militants. The hooded figure materialized just behind him, his face hidden by shadow but for the faintest hue of pale flesh that outlined the silhouette of his gaunt face. Turning round, the Einherjar drew his spear at the ready, but Odin called out his deep baritone voice before contact could be made.

“Stop. Leave us,” he commanded, his voice beginning on a note of severity and ending on one of acquiescence.

The troupe obeyed reluctantly, making uneasy eye contact with one another before slinking out of the throne room like a flock of cautious dogs. Once alone, the Allfather stood from his seated pose, assuming an air of ultimate power fitful only for a king of such a domain as he possessed.

“You have committed the most heinous of crimes, Odinson,” he said, his voice quiet in volume and yet still booming and thunderous.

The hooded figure remained silent at first, a tiny glint of reflected light betraying that he smiled beneath his furry veil. He seemed to mock the king of kings in his own hall.
“You have spilled blood on hallowed ground — stained the honor of my home, of my name!” he continued, his voice growing in volume and the sheer power of his words causing the very architecture to tremble, “Have you nothing to say in defense of your actions? Have you no reason for such treachery?”

Shrugging softly, the Trickster reached up and pulled back his hood, his eyes revealing to be locked upon his pseudo-father, and glaring their green hues as if they were made of ice. His mouth was twisted into a sickly grin and his cheeks were sallow and thin. He appeared haggard — emaciated, even. His journey clear upon his face, and upon his posture.

“If you wish a pretty word — seek out someone willing to give you one. I’ve nothing to say to you,” he hissed.

 Sigyn hurried down the halls, desperate to reach Loki. Oh how she had missed him so… She had not thought it possible to miss someone quite so dearly as she had done until it happened to her, and she had expected much less that she be the one to feel pain when he left… It was true then, that in a sense, a being only knew what it had when it was gone.

In Loki’s absence, Sigyn had thought a number of ways in which to search for him, and several places she thought she may find him. None of course were successful in helping her, even with her thinking so much as asking Ratatosk for help, as he ran up and down the tree frequently and therefore much see so much of the many realms.

Now she was mere minutes from him. She could feel the excitement and anticipation building inside her, making her shaky as she ran.

She longed to see him again, but she knew that the All-Father would not greet him with open arms, and was likely to either hold a court or make a decision that Sigyn could not agree with, but was bound by oath not to disagree with. It pained her sometimes that Loki was not favoured by other Asgardians.

Onwards she ran, as fast as she could. She sprinted down the halls, her long black hair, unbrushed and left uncut for so long, reaching out in a yawn behind her.

Hurtling around another golden pillar, she could see a figure leaving the throne room.

Casting his countenance to the ground, the Allfather heaved a deep sigh.

“You were my son, Loki,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, the gold of the slab over his right eye sparkling as if to allude to the war in which Loki was stolen from his ancestral home.

Exhausted and curt, Loki nearly scoffed at the idea, pushing the cloak off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor entirely as if to show that he stood his ground.

“No. I never was. Tell me, father, when a thief steals, is the object of his transgression really his?”

The words from the jotun that stood at the foot of the dais seemed to ignite something inside of the Allfather that caused his eyes to burn with rage. It was remarkable sometimes how much like Odin Thor was, and how blatantly the similarities showed. Opening his mouth as if to begin on a barrage of heated words, Odin suddenly closed it, instead, coming down the stairs of the dais so that he towered mere inches away from Loki.

If one were to spectate such an event, it would be remarkable how different the two were. Loki, tall, lean, and clothed in garb that adequately matched his pale skin and the dark, dramatic shadows that were cast about his face and brow — and Odin, mastadonic in stature and, though aged as he was, muscular and authoritative. It was quite clear who the snake was between them.

As if to dare him, Loki began to speak, but the words were torn from his very lungs as Odin thundered before him once again, “You must pay for your crimes!” he bellowed, grasping the loose cloth of Loki’s apparel around the neck and pulling him close, “I take from you your power — so that you might not do further harm!”
Casting the scrawny frost giant to the floor of the throne room, Loki’s sudden lack of strength caused him to go sprawling, his limbs weak.

He wanted nothing more than to rise and spit his own venomous words back at the old man, but he was utterly mortal. He had no gift to call on in the magical arts to whisk him away to some other realm — he did not have the vitality that had been given to him when he was made Asgardian. The sudden contrast between eternity and mortality left him gasping for air and weak, and yet he drew his face up to Odin where his green eyes cut like daggers the Einherjar came marching back in at the sound of raised voices and conflict.

“Remove him from my sight. I shall have further words with him… when I have devised the rest of his punishment,” said the Allfather, his visage suddenly one of a weary old man.

Adhering to order, the guardsmen took up Loki, his weight easy and light, and tossed him just outside the throne room where he once again went sliding and sprawling across the polished golden floors. Just behind him the doors came to a slamming close, their resonating sound symbolic for finality and the Trickster’s inevitable fate.

Just before the Deceiver lost his consciousness in his weakened state, he saw the shape of a woman, beautiful and frantic, skirting a nearby pillar — and then his world went black.

 The figure Sigyn had been watching with curiosity now lay still, unconscious, on the polished hallway floor, causing her to immediately run to its aid unthinkingly.

As she drew closer, she noticed familiarities in the still body before her. The slim figure, the defined jaw-line and high cheekbones… The unusually pale complexion and the slicked back black hair…

“Loki!” The dark haired Goddess exclaimed, dropping to her knees. It was as though the air had been pulled from her lungs as she looked down upon the unconscious mortal form of her spouse. Her bright blue orbs examined the man before her; checking that he was real, not just a figment of her imagination. Tears escaped her shining eyes, sliding down her cheeks in hot lines. She laughed once, a manic and overwhelmed laugh, filled with delight of her husbands return to Asgard.

Her hands flitted over him, unsure of where to touch him, or if to do so at all. She tried not to take too long in her decision, which ended in her scooping his head into her lap and stroking his soft cheeks with the touch of a feather. Mortal or not, she could not - would not - abandon Loki.

He was so much… better than she remembered. Her memories had faded a little, blurring his features slightly, making them less defined and beautiful. She wanted him so dearly to open his emerald eyes and gaze upon her as he once had.

Certain memories were so sharp in her mind - those containing love, passion and caring words and actions. Others however - such as the terrible affairs regarding the circumstances of their wedding and his deceit - had faded to naught but a speck in the back of her mind.

After a moment or two of doing nothing more than touching his face, caressing him as though he were an illusion that could disappear at any given second, her brow furrowed. It would not do for them to stay in such a place; in the center of a broad golden hallway outside the throne room. Anyone could see them, and she was sure that Loki would not approve of such public displays of affection.

Pulling one arm over her shoulder, Sigyn winced, heaving him up with her when she stood as best she could. She had done quite literally nothing since her spouse left; she was weaker than she remembered. Despite her lack of strength, she carried him back to their bedchamber as best she could, desperate for him to rest in his own bed instead of on the cold, hard and oft walked over floor.

When green eyes came flitting open some-odd hours later, a searing headache rattled Loki’s skull. It was quite unusual — such a feeling — for sickness was exclusive for those who were of mortal descent. Each throb, each pound of stomach-turning pain was a bought of mocking laughter directed at his circumstance. Always the weakest, always little Loki.

When his jade orbs came into focus on the dusky environment, scents and hues of familiarity overwhelmed him and yet still it was all so foreign. Sable drapes strung open over a large window, chairs and a desk of heavy, dark wood, and the soft rustle of summery silken linens against his cold flesh. In another life, it was his home — his chambers, and yet an aroma apart from his own lingered on the sheets of the bed in which he lay, a comforting and gentle scent that he actually enjoyed despite his pained disposition.

Drawing a hand up to his temple and moaning softly, he turned his head so as to rest a cheek against the cool surface of a pillow. It would have been chilling, if his own homeostasis was not as frigid as it was.

“Wh…Where..?” he mumbled, his eyes closing once again as the exhaustion from his journey collided with having his immortality stripped from him and the simple motion of his arm that sapped any energy he might have had straight from his being.

In truth, Loki had expected no less. I had hardly been his choice to return to the realm eternal — for in his travels banishment had been his fate as per each realm that had found him leeching off of their resources. Across the nine realms, Loki had become even more hated — and it became clear that the memories of his brother’s death, let alone the Trickster’s countless other crimes, were not exclusive to Asgard.

In his wandering, the raven-haired god had come to curse the Allfather’s name — and each time that he stopped at a pool of water to bathe or drink, his icy reflection mocked him and, on occasion, provoked a tear to fall silently in mourning for his twisted upbringing and doomed existence.

Cast away at birth, had Odin not come to take him like a thief in the night, Loki would have surely died there, on the steps of Jotunheim — and yet was such a fate any worse than having lived a lie his entire life. The irony of the situation was torture — the King of Deceit having been deceived all his years. It was heart-rending to endure, and so Loki became entirely numb, taking pleasure in the pain of others. His rationale? He would never have the love that his brother possessed — never the acceptance. And so he desired fear, for love was fleeting, full of selfish desires, and yet fear, true fear, lingered until the very moment of death. If there was not a place in Asgard’s heart for Loki — then there was a place in its nightmares.

Presently, his breaths came out ragged and only with much effort as he exhaled the entirety of his question, “Where am I?”

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

The light of the day fading slowly as mountains and towers of the eternal realm devoured it — night fell upon the golden city of Asgard. Birds and insects sounded their calls as the bustle of the streets came to a lesser volume as people bid one another farewell and entered their homes for the night, suppers being cleared from tables, and mothers kissing their children goodnight. The air smelled of moisture and young starlight — lending the atmosphere a pleasant feeling in the wake of midsummer heat.

As stars peeked out from behind their cosmic curtain, the light of the rainbow bridge sparkled and glistened against the now-matte surface of the waters beneath it. And, in the midst of the perfect summertime nightscape, something seemed amiss.  Some darkness lent its discomfort to the air about the rainbow bridge, and as if the notion of malevolent nature was acknowledged by the very air, a shape materialized, dark and hunched — breathing only with much labor and quickly falling to it’s knees. The figure was that of a man, enshrouded in a mantle of furs.

The man had wandered the nine realms aimlessly in flight from his father — each world rejecting him as the last had, and in his journey his mind had only time with itself. His silver tongue had not spoken a word since his day of departure from the golden realm, but rather, his twisted thoughts were kept within, fermenting and folding in on themselves, amplifying and convoluting until they were monstrously enlarged reflections of their original selves. The memories of his slain brother, and the heat of his funeral pyre were still fresh in his mind, regardless of how many years had passed since their occurrence.

Guards raced up to the trespasser, lances and halberds cocked and at the ready, and yet as they neared the doubled over silhouette, their eyes drew them to a grinding halt. Emerging from the hood of the collage of furs that made up the cloak was a pair of golden horns — curving upward and gleaming the mocking reflection of the dying sun.

“The Deceiver returns…” the first guard said, looking up to his opposite as, crouched over the enshrouded figure, he touched a fingertip to one of the blazing horns, “Inform the court.”

 In a large, grand bedchamber, one which used to belong to her beloved, Sigyn lay. She was sprawled out across the bed, her eyes boring holes into the ceiling with her dead glare. Since Loki had gone, she had found no reason to be merry.

No reason she found for her to move or keep herself at her best. Her love, or so the one she had come to love, was not with her any longer.

Instead? Instead she flopped about the room she had shared with her husband once upon a time. Even the scent of her sweet, mischievous God had faded out of the sheets, and she could no longer even find comfort in her depression. Much less, peace…

“My lady!” A frantic knocking on the bedchamber door startled her, bringing her immediately to her feet before realising it was just a guard. She strode over to answer, nevertheless.

Her icy blue eyes scanned the guard upon the tall, golden door opening, “Guard… What is it that troubles you so?” She was still polite to those she spoke to, despite everything.

“Loki!” he gasped, sounding out of breath, “He returns, Lady Sigyn! Loki has returned! You are require-“

She had not even given him the time to finish before she was rushing herself to the throne room. 

The doors to the throne room burst open with power and volume, a troupe of Einherjar all clad in loud armor and pikestaffs came marching in, their formation almost circular though amoebic as it was. The golden room had seemed so serene, so silent, as the Allfather sat at the ready upon his towering throne, and yet the thickness of apprehension hung all throughout its air like a sickly humidity.

The news of the return of the most-hated of the gods was not well received — and it was unfortunate that the messenger that preceded the troupe that presently entered came only a short while before the doors came crashing open and the bustle of footfalls became cacophonous and deafening. There must have been twenty Einherjar surrounding that cloaked figure that walked slowly and laboriously in the centre of the ring.

Even from between the shoulders and helms of the Asgardian guardsmen, the two peeking golden horns seemed to be all the confirmation that Odin needed. Loki.

“My Lord…” said the Einherjar at the forefront of the circle as they came to a clattering halt at the foot of the dais upon which sat the imperial throne of Asgard, “Your son… “

The guardsman ended his awkward introduction with a bow that was both hesitant and unsure. Was the Deceiver really worth such formality after his deeds?

Suddenly, the guardsman was not alone, standing before the assembly of other militants. The hooded figure materialized just behind him, his face hidden by shadow but for the faintest hue of pale flesh that outlined the silhouette of his gaunt face. Turning round, the Einherjar drew his spear at the ready, but Odin called out his deep baritone voice before contact could be made.

“Stop. Leave us,” he commanded, his voice beginning on a note of severity and ending on one of acquiescence.

The troupe obeyed reluctantly, making uneasy eye contact with one another before slinking out of the throne room like a flock of cautious dogs. Once alone, the Allfather stood from his seated pose, assuming an air of ultimate power fitful only for a king of such a domain as he possessed.

“You have committed the most heinous of crimes, Odinson,” he said, his voice quiet in volume and yet still booming and thunderous.

The hooded figure remained silent at first, a tiny glint of reflected light betraying that he smiled beneath his furry veil. He seemed to mock the king of kings in his own hall.
“You have spilled blood on hallowed ground — stained the honor of my home, of my name!” he continued, his voice growing in volume and the sheer power of his words causing the very architecture to tremble, “Have you nothing to say in defense of your actions? Have you no reason for such treachery?”

Shrugging softly, the Trickster reached up and pulled back his hood, his eyes revealing to be locked upon his pseudo-father, and glaring their green hues as if they were made of ice. His mouth was twisted into a sickly grin and his cheeks were sallow and thin. He appeared haggard — emaciated, even. His journey clear upon his face, and upon his posture.

“If you wish a pretty word — seek out someone willing to give you one. I’ve nothing to say to you,” he hissed.

 Sigyn hurried down the halls, desperate to reach Loki. Oh how she had missed him so… She had not thought it possible to miss someone quite so dearly as she had done until it happened to her, and she had expected much less that she be the one to feel pain when he left… It was true then, that in a sense, a being only knew what it had when it was gone.

In Loki’s absence, Sigyn had thought a number of ways in which to search for him, and several places she thought she may find him. None of course were successful in helping her, even with her thinking so much as asking Ratatosk for help, as he ran up and down the tree frequently and therefore much see so much of the many realms.

Now she was mere minutes from him. She could feel the excitement and anticipation building inside her, making her shaky as she ran.

She longed to see him again, but she knew that the All-Father would not greet him with open arms, and was likely to either hold a court or make a decision that Sigyn could not agree with, but was bound by oath not to disagree with. It pained her sometimes that Loki was not favoured by other Asgardians.

Onwards she ran, as fast as she could. She sprinted down the halls, her long black hair, unbrushed and left uncut for so long, reaching out in a yawn behind her.

Hurtling around another golden pillar, she could see a figure leaving the throne room.

Casting his countenance to the ground, the Allfather heaved a deep sigh.

“You were my son, Loki,” he said in a voice just above a whisper, the gold of the slab over his right eye sparkling as if to allude to the war in which Loki was stolen from his ancestral home.

Exhausted and curt, Loki nearly scoffed at the idea, pushing the cloak off of his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor entirely as if to show that he stood his ground.

“No. I never was. Tell me, father, when a thief steals, is the object of his transgression really his?”

The words from the jotun that stood at the foot of the dais seemed to ignite something inside of the Allfather that caused his eyes to burn with rage. It was remarkable sometimes how much like Odin Thor was, and how blatantly the similarities showed. Opening his mouth as if to begin on a barrage of heated words, Odin suddenly closed it, instead, coming down the stairs of the dais so that he towered mere inches away from Loki.

If one were to spectate such an event, it would be remarkable how different the two were. Loki, tall, lean, and clothed in garb that adequately matched his pale skin and the dark, dramatic shadows that were cast about his face and brow — and Odin, mastadonic in stature and, though aged as he was, muscular and authoritative. It was quite clear who the snake was between them.

As if to dare him, Loki began to speak, but the words were torn from his very lungs as Odin thundered before him once again, “You must pay for your crimes!” he bellowed, grasping the loose cloth of Loki’s apparel around the neck and pulling him close, “I take from you your power — so that you might not do further harm!”
Casting the scrawny frost giant to the floor of the throne room, Loki’s sudden lack of strength caused him to go sprawling, his limbs weak.

He wanted nothing more than to rise and spit his own venomous words back at the old man, but he was utterly mortal. He had no gift to call on in the magical arts to whisk him away to some other realm — he did not have the vitality that had been given to him when he was made Asgardian. The sudden contrast between eternity and mortality left him gasping for air and weak, and yet he drew his face up to Odin where his green eyes cut like daggers the Einherjar came marching back in at the sound of raised voices and conflict.

“Remove him from my sight. I shall have further words with him… when I have devised the rest of his punishment,” said the Allfather, his visage suddenly one of a weary old man.

Adhering to order, the guardsmen took up Loki, his weight easy and light, and tossed him just outside the throne room where he once again went sliding and sprawling across the polished golden floors. Just behind him the doors came to a slamming close, their resonating sound symbolic for finality and the Trickster’s inevitable fate.

Just before the Deceiver lost his consciousness in his weakened state, he saw the shape of a woman, beautiful and frantic, skirting a nearby pillar — and then his world went black.

asgardianqueen:

xpermafrost:

asgardianqueen:

Quietness. Not a single sound could be heard. Lady Frigga sat alone in the bed chamber that she shared with the all-father. It had been several days since she had barricaded herself in the room, refusing to leave, refusing to eat. Several days since the return of Loki. Her son.

Loki’s…

When the Queen of Asgard found the tall, gaunt man known she had adopted as her son, he was seated casually upon a stone bench that was placed aesthetically beneath the towering statues of famed Valhallan warriors that held up long arches, constructing an outdoor hall connecting one point of Gladsheim with another. Crooked in his lap was a thick book, pages yellowed and partially torn in select places, he appeared serene, though dark as he was, his face was downcast and his eyes hooded in a state of concentration. His legs were crosses and his shoulders pushed back in princely posture — giving him an air of tension though he seemed to be spending time towards relaxation.

He was pensive over his text, though he could hear the footfalls of his mother as she neared. He needn’t hear her speak to know what was to come. Surely yet another heated word and angrily drawn brow awaited him, and he silently cursed her for approaching him.

When Frigga’s eyes fixed on Loki, everything she had rehearsed in her head melted away. She froze. It truly was a bittersweet moment. Unexpectedly, she was happy to see him, but a part of her was angry, and hostile. The two emotions conflicted inside of her violently. 

She opened her mouth to let out a stern greeting, a harsh “How could you show your face here?” but nothing came out. She couldn’t speak. She was legitimately speechless.

Instead, she knelt before him, and took him into her arms, hugging him tightly, wordless. Tears rolled down her cheeks steadily as she held her son. Tears of happiness mixed with tears of guilt. She felt guilty that she was so happy to see him. Guilty that she was embracing Baldr’s murderer.

Having expected his mother to shower him with sharp, cutting words, Loki nearly gasped aloud as her arms snaked around him and pulled him into an embrace. In the early years of his life, while he was always on the forefront of blame and neglect by means of his father — Loki had always found solace in the warm, comforting words of his mother. Of course, such a trait gave rise to another string of insults from the other children of the court, their high-pitched voices jeering little things like, “run back to your mother, Loki!”

In truth, when Loki had tricked Hoder into that fateful throw of the mistletoe branch, Frigga had been far from his conscious mind. His thoughts surrounded only the prophecy of the norn witches, who told of songs that would be sung of him — his name being known throughout all the nine realms. The possibility of recognition, of finally having the place he deserved in the halls of history… even if it meant playing the villain.

Her tears were hot against the nape of his neck as Frigga held him, and whatever words he had formulated to hiss and spit at his mother with venomous intent had been thrown to the winds. It took him a goodly while to recall his visage of composure, his eyes returning from their widened state.

“Mother…” he began, his voice soft before hardening along with his heart, “…What is it that you want from me?”

His arms remained slack in his lap, holding his book with tense fingers that mirrored the sudden discomfort that radiated throughout his being, and his back arced like a feline’s under the weight of his mother as she hung from him.

asgardianqueen:

Quietness. Not a single sound could be heard. Lady Frigga sat alone in the bed chamber that she shared with the all-father. It had been several days since she had barricaded herself in the room, refusing to leave, refusing to eat. Several days since the return of Loki. Her son.

Loki’s…

When the Queen of Asgard found the tall, gaunt man known she had adopted as her son, he was seated casually upon a stone bench that was placed aesthetically beneath the towering statues of famed Valhallan warriors that held up long arches, constructing an outdoor hall connecting one point of Gladsheim with another. Crooked in his lap was a thick book, pages yellowed and partially torn in select places, he appeared serene, though dark as he was, his face was downcast and his eyes hooded in a state of concentration. His legs were crosses and his shoulders pushed back in princely posture — giving him an air of tension though he seemed to be spending time towards relaxation.

He was pensive over his text, though he could hear the footfalls of his mother as she neared. He needn’t hear her speak to know what was to come. Surely yet another heated word and angrily drawn brow awaited him, and he silently cursed her for approaching him.

ladysigyn:

xpermafrost:

The light of the day fading slowly as mountains and towers of the eternal realm devoured it — night fell upon the golden city of Asgard. Birds and insects sounded their calls as the bustle of the streets came to a lesser volume as people bid one another farewell and entered their homes for the night, suppers being cleared from tables, and mothers kissing their children goodnight. The air smelled of moisture and young starlight — lending the atmosphere a pleasant feeling in the wake of midsummer heat.

As stars peeked out from behind their cosmic curtain, the light of the rainbow bridge sparkled and glistened against the now-matte surface of the waters beneath it. And, in the midst of the perfect summertime nightscape, something seemed amiss.  Some darkness lent its discomfort to the air about the rainbow bridge, and as if the notion of malevolent nature was acknowledged by the very air, a shape materialized, dark and hunched — breathing only with much labor and quickly falling to it’s knees. The figure was that of a man, enshrouded in a mantle of furs.

The man had wandered the nine realms aimlessly in flight from his father — each world rejecting him as the last had, and in his journey his mind had only time with itself. His silver tongue had not spoken a word since his day of departure from the golden realm, but rather, his twisted thoughts were kept within, fermenting and folding in on themselves, amplifying and convoluting until they were monstrously enlarged reflections of their original selves. The memories of his slain brother, and the heat of his funeral pyre were still fresh in his mind, regardless of how many years had passed since their occurrence.

Guards raced up to the trespasser, lances and halberds cocked and at the ready, and yet as they neared the doubled over silhouette, their eyes drew them to a grinding halt. Emerging from the hood of the collage of furs that made up the cloak was a pair of golden horns — curving upward and gleaming the mocking reflection of the dying sun.

“The Deceiver returns…” the first guard said, looking up to his opposite as, crouched over the enshrouded figure, he touched a fingertip to one of the blazing horns, “Inform the court.”

 In a large, grand bedchamber, one which used to belong to her beloved, Sigyn lay. She was sprawled out across the bed, her eyes boring holes into the ceiling with her dead glare. Since Loki had gone, she had found no reason to be merry.

No reason she found for her to move or keep herself at her best. Her love, or so the one she had come to love, was not with her any longer.

Instead? Instead she flopped about the room she had shared with her husband once upon a time. Even the scent of her sweet, mischievous God had faded out of the sheets, and she could no longer even find comfort in her depression. Much less, peace…

“My lady!” A frantic knocking on the bedchamber door startled her, bringing her immediately to her feet before realising it was just a guard. She strode over to answer, nevertheless.

Her icy blue eyes scanned the guard upon the tall, golden door opening, “Guard… What is it that troubles you so?” She was still polite to those she spoke to, despite everything.

“Loki!” he gasped, sounding out of breath, “He returns, Lady Sigyn! Loki has returned! You are require-“

She had not even given him the time to finish before she was rushing herself to the throne room. 

The doors to the throne room burst open with power and volume, a troupe of Einherjar all clad in loud armor and pikestaffs came marching in, their formation almost circular though amoebic as it was. The golden room had seemed so serene, so silent, as the Allfather sat at the ready upon his towering throne, and yet the thickness of apprehension hung all throughout its air like a sickly humidity.

The news of the return of the most-hated of the gods was not well received — and it was unfortunate that the messenger that preceded the troupe that presently entered came only a short while before the doors came crashing open and the bustle of footfalls became cacophonous and deafening. There must have been twenty Einherjar surrounding that cloaked figure that walked slowly and laboriously in the centre of the ring.

Even from between the shoulders and helms of the Asgardian guardsmen, the two peeking golden horns seemed to be all the confirmation that Odin needed. Loki.

“My Lord…” said the Einherjar at the forefront of the circle as they came to a clattering halt at the foot of the dais upon which sat the imperial throne of Asgard, “Your son… “

The guardsman ended his awkward introduction with a bow that was both hesitant and unsure. Was the Deceiver really worth such formality after his deeds?

Suddenly, the guardsman was not alone, standing before the assembly of other militants. The hooded figure materialized just behind him, his face hidden by shadow but for the faintest hue of pale flesh that outlined the silhouette of his gaunt face. Turning round, the Einherjar drew his spear at the ready, but Odin called out his deep baritone voice before contact could be made.

“Stop. Leave us,” he commanded, his voice beginning on a note of severity and ending on one of acquiescence.

The troupe obeyed reluctantly, making uneasy eye contact with one another before slinking out of the throne room like a flock of cautious dogs. Once alone, the Allfather stood from his seated pose, assuming an air of ultimate power fitful only for a king of such a domain as he possessed.

“You have committed the most heinous of crimes, Odinson,” he said, his voice quiet in volume and yet still booming and thunderous.

The hooded figure remained silent at first, a tiny glint of reflected light betraying that he smiled beneath his furry veil. He seemed to mock the king of kings in his own hall.
“You have spilled blood on hallowed ground — stained the honor of my home, of my name!” he continued, his voice growing in volume and the sheer power of his words causing the very architecture to tremble, “Have you nothing to say in defense of your actions? Have you no reason for such treachery?”

Shrugging softly, the Trickster reached up and pulled back his hood, his eyes revealing to be locked upon his pseudo-father, and glaring their green hues as if they were made of ice. His mouth was twisted into a sickly grin and his cheeks were sallow and thin. He appeared haggard — emaciated, even. His journey clear upon his face, and upon his  posture.

“If you wish a pretty word — seek out someone willing to give you one. I’ve nothing to say to you,” he hissed.