Chapter Text
Whilst the kingdom believed Odin Allfather to be peacefully abed, Loki had sat down to write. It was like drawing blood. And he kept missing the vein.
He wanted to inscribe a truth, something staggering that would make the dull droves of Asgard finally understand. He wanted, in some part at least, contrary to every impression of him, to tell the truth, if only for himself. That was what the archives should have done for the play. But he could not.
He wanted to be able to tell his own story, blessedly shielded from the shame of doing so. It should have been an opportunity to say what he might have said in his trial, had he had one. (He would not have said it, of course. He would not debase himself so. But Theoric writing it for the mouths of actors, himself seemingly utterly and completely removed from it... It should have been perfect.) But he could not.
Every time he tried his hand at honesty, at shaping the words of his story – a story locked away, a story derided, a story forgotten – it was as if his pen refused to co-operate. Or his hand itself. Or his treacherous mind.
He read back over the scant page he had written and could hear Sigyn’s voice, strident, aflame, the voice he had first caught in that fatal proclamation, Loki was not a monster.
“This is a melodrama.” That’s what she would say. “Theoric, you’ve written his story as a melodrama. Even a comedy.” Well, perhaps she would be more tactful. Perhaps she wouldn’t be, if it really made her angry.
Sometimes it was touching, the strange protectiveness she clearly still felt for his memory. But in this matter, it was infuriating. Because how could he possibly explain to her? He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
He would try to tell his own story, the truth as he knew it, and somehow the words came out... slanted. Smirking at him.
He tried to write what had happened on Svartalfheim. It had seemed like a good scene to build on, something the Asgardians would actually respect, but as he tried to form the circumstances of what had happened into words... How, how could he possibly tell that? He had meant to die. He thought he had died. He had looked into Thor’s eyes and he had felt the closest to him that he had felt in so, so achingly long. He tried to write that moment, that crystalline moment in his memory, and it came out padded, wrapped up, distorted through kaleidoscopic snippets of other snippets of their lives, conversations that never happened, until it was grandiose and, yes, melodramatic.
It was the only way he could get the story out. The only way these truths would reveal themselves to others, even others who could never know just what kind of truths they were. His story: truth, but refracted.
It was safer to give laughter to what was not quite him than to look, head-on, upon his own reflection.
But Sigyn wouldn’t understand that. Or – and this was far more troubling – she might understand it, in theory, if he, Loki, explained it to her. She would at least try to understand. But there was no way that Theoric writing it could look anything but disrespectful and dismissive.
He felt his hand being squeezed.
“Are you even watching?” Sigyn hissed, laughter in her eyes.
“Unfortunately,” he whispered back.
They were watching a play. A matinee that Sigyn could catch before her shift started in the archive, and which he could fit around kingly duties by pleading Odin’s need for repose. He was doing that a lot lately.
The play was appalling. It was typical Asgardian fare: messily choreographed battle scenes that probably lead to real injuries; gratuitous fake blood; and an utterly insufferable pair of pining lovers separated by the would-be-bride’s father’s disapproval of the young man, whose family history was unknown.
“He’s going to turn out to be the long-lost son of the father’s blood-brother, isn’t he?” Loki had groaned within the first five minutes. That was bad enough in itself; what was worse was that whilst he was evidently right, the characters, even nearly two hours in, still had no idea themselves.
The only entertaining thing about the whole debacle was witnessing Sigyn’s increasingly futile attempts to control her laughter as the show degenerated before their eyes. He wasn’t sure if he should be troubled by that reaction. So much was troubling now.
He still hadn’t made a firm decision on what to do about the revelation of the precognitive dreaming. He told himself he was observing, biding his time, making plans. But the planning simply circled round and around, on and on, never-ending spirals with no definite actions.
And there was so much else going on, that was the trouble. There were the issues with the play – which were, of course, issues with him, but not to dwell on that – and endless frustrations in the management of the realms... Sometimes he was plagued by questions of what Thor would do in his place. He didn’t know. Did the answer matter? He didn’t know. And, perhaps worst of all, there were the lurking, sharp-edged thoughts of his mother. Distracted, sometimes, he would make a mental note to ask her a question – and would have to abruptly remind himself that she was dead. And that, of course, was why he couldn’t ask her about any of the things he’d discovered in the archives.
He had considered giving Theoric a mother likewise lost in the attack on Asgard. He could have spoken to Sigyn about it then. Well, some of it. Carefully concealed, as everything was. But it was too risky. Some distance needed to be maintained. Although Loki was Theoric, Theoric could not be Loki.
That was bothering him too, of course. He suppressed it as much as he could.
“Are you alright?” Sigyn asked as they left the theatre – at last blessedly free of that eye-watering production.
“Suffering horribly after that tripe,” he said, “But I suppose I shall endure.”
She tilted her head. “You’ve seemed distracted today.”
“I’m having some difficulties with the play. Hit a snag in the draft,” he said. An easy response, and at least somewhat true.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’ll work itself out – is doing other things helping?”
“Well it’s at least reassured me I can’t create Asgard’s worst performance.”
She laughed. Then she said, “Do you want to talk over the issue?”
“No,” he said, “thank you. I always draft entirely alone – I’m very particular about the process.”
“No surprises there, I suppose,” she said, rather affectionately. “But if I can do anything...”
“I’ll tell you, of course. But really, Sigyn, it’s fine. Nothing out of the ordinary in this work.”
She nodded up at him, then slowly twisted his hand in hers. He saw what she was going to do. He really shouldn’t find it so affecting when she did things like this, but Norns. It was the flash in which he saw the desire spark in her, and in the same breath she would move on it, reach out to seize it with both hands. But always, always that brief, serious moment where she observed him, always ready to divert if there was any issue.
She pulled him down so she could place a kiss just under his ear, right where she knew he was sensitive. Then that quick registering that he approved. Then she shifted her weight to lean against him and kiss him on the mouth. Glorious.
They kissed on the street corner. There was a promise in the kiss, that, despite its relative chasteness, made it utterly indecent. It made him pull her back to kiss her again.
She sighed softly when he finally pulled away. “Have a good evening,” she murmured, arms still loosely round his neck.
“And you. Think of me.” His forehead, of its own accord, found hers to rest against.
“Always,” she said laughing, and somehow all the more sincere for laughing. “Perhaps I shall doodle your name in my notebook for good measure.”
His throat constricted. It was a joke, of course. But implicitly it was a burning reminder that it was not his name that would be on her mind at all. Theoric Theoric Theoric.
And there was the thought, the awful thought, in his mind unbidden.
The steps he must take to return to the Allfather’s chambers – turning, as Theoric, down one of a number of carefully selected alleys where no one would see him, becoming invisible there to make the journey to the palace, balancing the conservation of his energy with meticulous timing and attention – had all become so instinctive to him now that he did not have to relent from his blackening thoughts throughout the whole complex journey. He was fuming by the time he was able to sink onto the Allfather’s couch as himself again.
It was not the first time the thought of telling her the truth about himself had slipped, will o’ the whisp, into his mind.
The first time had been with his nose pressed to the juncture of her throat, both of them sweaty, hearts pounding, in a post-orgasmic haze. She had been murmuring ‘Theoric’ as she held him, hands touching everywhere, so overwhelmingly tender, and a treacherous little voice, the kind that always got him into trouble, whispered to him, “Tell her.” On that occasion, he had been able to pretend the thought was some confused, rambling result of very satisfying sex.
The second time her head had been buried between his legs. His hand had sought hers, as though he needed it to ground him, as though he may lose himself if she didn’t hold onto him. “I wish she knew,” was the thought then, naked as the pair of them. That instance was a little more shameful to him, as it has not been merely the mad coaxing of a tormented mind – he was so used to such things – but an actual, unguarded expression of desire. But still, who can be blamed for what thoughts they silently hold whilst receiving cunnilingus?
This third time, however... It was more absurd and harder to dismiss. It vexed him. He flung himself back on the couch and covered his eyes with his arm. When would he stop facing dilemmas regarding this woman? Such conflicting wants?
He wanted to push her away. He wanted to keep her.
He slowly drew his arm away from his eyes, letting the light filter in.
It was only upon the third time reading the letter that she had just received that Sigyn started to believe it. Then she read it again, just to be sure she’d understood. It seemed impossible. Too good to be true, honestly.
She had been offered a fully-funded sabbatical to properly investigate her powers of prescience. There was no specified time limit. As long as she needed to work on developing her precognition, determining how best she could focus it, with specialist aid constantly available. It was beyond perfect for her.
Except that it was on Vanaheim.
That, of course, should not be an ‘except’. Vanaheim meant the best support and resources she could possibly have. But now, it very definitely came with a snag. That realisation ground her to a halt.
Sat at her table, breakfast still laid in front of her, the crisp parchment the messenger had delivered gripped in her fingers, the thought that had come out of nowhere now unignorable.
I’ll miss her play.
It wasn’t just the play, of course. She would miss her play because she would be absent from Theoric’s life for that time. Theoric would be absent from hers.
Was it reasonable, the strange roil of emotions that brought up? She liked Theoric very much. She could tell Theoric liked her, too, however much more guarded she may be about it (Theoric could be very affectionate, in her own way). But they’d known one another a matter of months. The level of attachment Sigyn felt...
There had been no ‘I love you’.
But the problem was that the whole sentence, as far as Sigyn was concerned at least, was “There had been no ‘I love you’ yet”. She could feel the seedlings of it, growing all the time.
That was probably why she felt so uncertain now. It was not like parting with a lover of centuries-standing; that would have been a different unpleasant emotion. This was the worry that parting from Theoric now would mean the end for them.
She didn’t want it to end. They were still growing together.
She had to talk to Theoric.
Before that, though, she needed to go to the market.
Finding Theoric was not always straightforward. She had some lodgings at the end of a maze of streets, towards the city’s outskirts, but she hardly ever seemed to be there. She also had a tendency to wander around, Sigyn knew – she’d never met anyone so well acquainted with the nooks and crannies of Asgard’s streets, frequently taking Sigyn to places which she’d say she “stumbled across years ago”. But Sigyn’s first thought when seeking her was the desk in the main library that she had told Sigyn was one of her favourite workspaces, and which, if Theoric could be found, was the place Sigyn most often found her. It was there she hurried to now.
It had been a good thought. Theoric was curled over a manuscript (which seemed to be nothing more than a list of scenes at the moment, giving nothing away) in the secluded corner desk. She looked up when she saw Sigyn and smiled at her. It felt strange, finding her like this; it always did. It was absurd, but whenever they met unarranged like this and she’d see Theoric’s smile upon seeing her, it reminded Sigyn that, however private she remained, Theoric did want to let her into her life. She clutched the letter tighter.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Something serious?” Theoric asked as she rolled up her parchment and stood up, ready to leave with Sigyn before even knowing what she had to say.
“Sort of, yes.”
They went down to sit by one of Asgard’s many water features, a complicated fountain in an inner courtyard. It was quiet here, a good place for privacy. They perched on the lip of the fountain and Sigyn handed Theoric the letter.
“I received this this morning.”
She watched as she read it, trying to interpret her response, but she was inscrutable. Slowly Theoric lowered the letter and looked at Sigyn. She smiled; just a hint wolfish, and clearly delighted.
“Sigyn, this is incredible news.”
“It is,” she agreed, sincere and not hiding her enthusiasm. She also didn’t hide the shadow of uncertainty. “It’s the sort of opportunity I never could have dreamed of. How my name even came up I don’t – You didn’t say something, did you?” she said suddenly.
Theoric chuckled. “If I had that sort of influence at court, I assure you I would have done. But no, it was nothing to do with me. I suspect there was some initial proposal started by the Allmother decades ago which has only now finally been seen to. That’s usually how bureaucracy goes, in my experience.”
Sigyn only nodded. When she didn’t say anything more, Theoric said, “You don’t seem quite as overjoyed as one might expect.”
“I really am happy about it, but... Here.”
She pulled her purchase from the market out of her bag and held it out to Theoric. It was a heavy candle, cream-coloured wax carefully engraved with a strip of gold, green and red runes.
Theoric looked at it for a moment that was probably very brief but seemed to Sigyn to stretch on for whole minutes. Then she took it.
“I really should expect such foresight from you,” she said, sounding almost moved, and Sigyn finally allowed herself to exhale a breath she had been pretending she wasn’t holding.
She had reassured herself it wasn’t presumptuous. They’d been seeing each other for months now; it wasn’t unreasonable to make a move to maintain contact whilst she was away. But it had still been a leap nonetheless, uncertain if Theoric might not see this as a natural end point.
But she cupped Sigyn’s face and bent to kiss her, slow and deep. As though she were memorising her.
“I’ll apply for a travel permit back to see your play,” Sigyn said when they parted.
“I don’t care about that,” Theoric said, keeping a hand on the back of her neck, keeping her close. “Just... Do write.”
“That’s why I got the candles.”
A pair of candles bound to one another could be used to transport messages from flame to flame, even across worlds. It was ancient magic, rather sneered at nowadays, but it was reliable.
“I can school you in the art of the erotic epistle,” Theoric said, stroking the nape of Sigyn’s neck.
“Experienced in that, are you?” Sigyn asked with a smile, catching her fingers in the fabric of Theoric’s shirt.
“Not to my satisfaction.”
Sigyn reached up for a handful of her hair and pulled her into another kiss.
“I’ll see if I can visit you,” Theoric said suddenly against her lips.
“Please. And I’ll apply to come back here, too. I’ll miss you.”
“It said you depart in a week?”
“That’s right.”
“Mmm. That should give us time to build to a proper send-off.”
The head archivist had made clear, in his usual, quietly judgemental way, that he did not approve of Sigyn’s absence being granted. Especially not as the thrust of the letter was that a place at the archive should be open to her when she did return. But there wasn’t much he could do about it; with the Allfather’s seal on the bottom of the document, it was law.
Describing to Theoric that night the look on the head archivist’s face as she handed said letter over was a moment of pure joy.
Sigyn did still have to attend to her duties in the archive in that week, but she was happy to do so – she did like her job, for all the unsociableness of the hours. And Theoric continued to turn up to work, and then to vie for Sigyn’s attention, night after night.
Sigyn did everything in her power to make best use of that last week. She went to her parents, and saw Ingrid for lunch several times. In the evenings she was with Theoric.
Theoric had taken the news with a calmness that Sigyn hoped was reassuring. But there was also something erratic about her behaviour that was more worrying.
At their final lunch together, Sigyn had said to Ingrid, “It feels as though she’s simultaneously digging her claws into me – like a cat does when it won’t be moved – and trying to force herself to let go.”
“Where do you even get metaphors like that? In what way is she digging her claws in?”
“I don’t know. It’s just how it seems.”
“Do you think she wants you to reject the offer?”
“No. Not at all. She’s seemed so genuinely enthusiastic about it for me.” This was the truth. Theoric was always eager to talk about what Sigyn would get out of her studies on Vanaheim. She could hardly have been happier if she had arranged the trip herself.
“In that case,” Ingrid had said, “you can’t really blame her for some conflicting behaviour about it. It’s not exactly ideal timing for both of you. Sounds like she’s trying to toe the line between not wanting you to go because she’ll miss you and wanting you to go because it’s the right thing for you. Which is exactly what you’d want: your partner loves you and supports you. Don’t overthink it.”
Sigyn looked into her drink. “It hasn’t come up in so many words.”
“That she loves you?”
She nodded. “But it’s still very early; we’ve not even known each other more than three months.”
“Definitely early. But...” Ingrid screwed her face up pensively. “You I’ve always said are the ‘fast and hard’ type. And I got the same impression from her, honestly. Not that I really know her, but. She is intense.”
“You think so? She can be so... guarded.”
“You always talk about her like she’s cautious, not uncaring. Maybe she’s guarded because she feels something, not because she doesn’t. See where your letters take you. Don’t overthink it.”
Ingrid’s words were particularly on her mind in her last evening with Theoric, as they had dinner together in Sigyn’s kitchen. Theoric had seemed restless at first, hardly able to keep her hands still, alternating between touching Sigyn – stroking her hair, squeezing her hand, caressing her skin – and absorbing herself in private, nervous movements: twisting her fingers, fiddling with her cuffs, crossing and re-crossing her legs. But now a calm seemed to have settled over her. She was charming, attentive, and at ease. Sigyn thought she was trying to make the most of their last night together.
They certainly did make much of their last night together: as Sigyn’s head sank to the pillow at last, she felt tired to her very bones.
Theoric chuckled. “Did I wear you out?”
“How do you even do that with your tongue?”
“I would be more than happy to teach you,” she purred, lying down smugly beside her. “And I do believe that learning is achieved through a careful balance of observation –” she swiped her tongue across Sigyn’s throat, no doubt tasting the salt of her sweaty skin, and swirled it expertly around her earlobe in a clear reminder of what she’d been doing to her clit mere moments before, “and practice.”
Sigyn took her cue. She imitated the gesture as best she could – less graceful, but equally enthusiastic. And then when she’d done, she grazed her teeth over the path she’d travelled and bit down on Theoric’s shoulder. She liked to prove she could be innovative as she learnt.
Theoric’s groan was pure sin.
Sigyn kissed where she’d marked by way of apology – though judging from how Theoric murmured her name like a blessed incantation, she didn’t think an apology was required.
“When do you have to leave?” she asked as she nestled in against Theoric, getting comfortable in spite of the disruption she knew was coming.
“I don’t.”
Sigyn held her breath. Theoric didn’t stay the night. She was nice about it, even apologetic sometimes, which Theoric professed to despise; but whatever the time, however good the night, she always left rather than sleeping.
“I’ll spend the night. If that’s alright with you.” Still nuzzled into the crook of Theoric’s neck, Sigyn couldn’t see her expression, and her tone was as guarded as she’d ever heard it. But she could feel the tension in how she was holding herself. Was she nervous?
“Of course I want you to stay. I always want you to stay.” She shifted onto the pillow so she could see Theoric’s face.
Theoric said nothing, but traced her fingertips up over Sigyn’s cheek. She’d had moments like this before, occasionally; moments when her touch was reverent, her look almost disbelieving. They normally heralded a moment when she’d pull back, realign herself, as though she’d felt like her control was slipping. This time, though, she wrapped her arms round Sigyn, rolling her over with what seemed no effort at all, so that Sigyn’s back was pressed to her chest, and murmured, “Sleep, darling.”
Sigyn was usually rather fickle about doing as Loki bid her in bed. She’d oblige requests, certainly, and would give him anything that he needed – even when he was too stubborn to ask for it – but anything resembling an order was usually only followed according to her whims. And her whims tended to be subversive. He would roll her underneath him, and she would hook her legs round his so that his position didn’t afford him the advantage it might have done. He loved it; it was never an advantage he was seeking.
On this occasion, however – perhaps because she really was that tired from their highly strenuous activities, or maybe because his instruction aligned precisely with her own wishes – she did sleep. Calmly, comfortably, surrounded by him.
He did not sleep. Rather, he watched her.
This had been a carefully calculated risk. He was no stranger to sacrificing a night of sleep. This night was worth it. He’d admit that, if he would admit no more. Though it was only to himself he could admit anything.
She slept soundly, curled securely in his arms. Would she feel so at ease if she knew who he was? Maybe. But likely not.
He knew the solution he’d come up with was short-term and would likely make more problems for him later. But nothing about his life at the moment was built to last. Thor would come back, or Odin would break free, or Sigyn would foresee his downfall. His days had always been numbered.
Perhaps the charm would wear off when she was away from him. Perhaps it wouldn’t. He just needed some space to think. Without surrendering her entirely just yet. The removal to Vanaheim need not be permanent; he could recall her, if he wanted to.
Her initiative in getting the candles had been... touching.
He knew exactly what he was grappling with. The lesson that he must cut out his own heart, because what made him feel was what could hurt him. His time ruling Asgard had been a period of addressing which lessons he wanted to unpick and discard. He was still uncertain of this one. Sending Sigyn away was the only way to allow himself to make that decision with any semblance of calm.
It wasn’t dissimilar to allowing Thor to gallivant around the Nine Realms in blessed ignorance of his survival.
How would she feel, if she knew it was Loki’s arms she lay in?
Sigyn stirred. She rolled over, narrowed her sleepy eyes at him. “You’re thinking very loudly. What’s wrong?”
“I’ll miss you,” he found himself saying.
She smiled, so soft and warm. “I’ll miss you too.” She rolled over fully in his arms so she could embrace him. “You’ll just have to pester the Allfather to let us visit one another.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He bent his head to start kissing her neck. It ended the conversation effectively. And delightfully.
They stood in the Bifrost observatory, toe to toe. Over Sigyn’s shoulder, Loki could see the vast stretch of space through which she would hurtle. Through which he had... He tried to avoid looking at it.
He looked into her eyes instead. He told himself it was because it was better than looking out there. He knew it was because he didn’t want to miss this.
She looked like she was trying hard not to cry, though she was smiling at him.
“I know this is a bit pathetic,” she said, clearly knowing he’d seen her eyes were wet.
He shook his head. “Not at all. But you know I will write to you.”
He knew he meant to keep that promise.
She took his hands. Whose hands were the ones shaking?
“If you two aren’t going to kiss, can you get a move on?” griped the replacement Gatekeeper he had appointed, a burly soldier with a shaved and tattooed head. Serge, or something equally ridiculous. He wasn’t a patch on Heimdall, but sadly Heimdall’s efficiency was precisely what made him such a risk. A king must make sacrifices, so his father had said.
What exactly had that meant for Odin?
Serge or – no, Skurge, it was Skurge – Skurge was certainly a sacrifice Loki was having to make. Not stabbing him in that moment was an even greater one. He had to remind himself that Theoric was no use to him if she were under murder charges.
He did not, however, restrain himself from making firm eye contact with the new Gatekeeper and saying, voice low and steeped in promised violence, “Would you care to repeat that? Because I can have you out of this observatory and into a pillory in less time than it takes you to polish your bare skull.”
Skurge blinked slowly. He stood mute for a moment, apparently hefting possible responses, before he finally said, “Yeah well, alright. But you really can’t stand around here all day.” He did turn his back though.
Sigyn leant up on her toes, her smile ghosting over Theoric’s lips as she murmured in delighted amusement which rather surprised Loki, “You really can be terrifying when you want to be, can’t you?”
“Oh yes,” he replied, tilting her head so their lips met at last.
It was a fitting farewell kiss. Savouring, appreciative, unhurried, and, at its core, promising more to come, whatever the delay.
“I’ll miss you,” Sigyn said, resting her forehead against his.
“I’ll miss you,” Theoric breathed against Sigyn’s mouth in the tiny space between them. Sigyn squeezed her hand gently as she moved back, not yet ready to totally sever the connection.
For just one, wild moment, she wanted not to go. But the look on Theoric’s face, the firmness, the (dare she say) dedication, the (she certainly would say, though only to herself) stubbornness there, all calmed her. Whatever hadn’t been said between them – and it was, she reminded herself, very reasonable that things hadn’t been said between them – the fixity of Theoric’s look made her confident that this time apart would not be a decisive separation.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Sigyn only looked away from him for the briefest moment, to get herself in position. She was still looking into his eyes as, to the background noise of Skurge’s muttering and grumbling theatricals, the Bifrost blasted her away from him.
He felt like some part of himself had gone too. He did his best to stamp on that feeling.