Should The Sky be Filled With Fire || Loki & Sigyn
Loki was as ready as he thought he could be.
Except for lingering anxieties (the nerves of anticipation, he told himself), he was packed, prepared, and rehearsed. The first diplomatic venture to Muspelheim in over two thousands years could not be that difficult.
Except the inherent danger of the trip had been an undercurrent of all their preparatory discussions. Their father had never said it, directly, but Loki was perceptive enough to know that there had been traces of worry in Odin’s eye. ‘The Muspel have not always looked favorably at Aesir presence in the Nine.’ had never come out of any advisor’s mouth, but it was implied and... undeniably the truth.
Surtur did not like Odin and, for the most part, Loki thought the sentiments mutual. But Muspelheim was a giant (no pun intended) of trade and military prowess, second only to Asgard itself and they could not be ignored and rebuffed forever. They had Muspel diplomats visit on occasion it was true, but nothing of this magnitude had been attempted and those on both sides were reasonably tense.
Loki expelled a tight breath and worked looseness into his limbs as he made his way, alone, toward the lower levels of the palace. Things were quiet, but only because many had gathered to see the princes off in the main square. He had only just sent the last of his servants away with his belongings, and they were not officially set to be departing for another hour, but Loki had business to see to before.
The weight of the trip was hard to ignore. He had slept little the last night or two, trying to chase away his own restless energy by finishing up last-minute alterations to his already impeccable addresses. Frigga had read and re-read them and assured him of their perfection. Still, he was not wholly convinced.
What if I fail. Had been the mantra ever there, since the conception of this diplomatic attempt. Louder still had been the question whenever he had looked at his father. What if I fail. What if I put us all in danger. What if, what if, what will you think of me?....
He had never been brave enough to voice his worry to Odin.
Nerves or no nerves, he was the picture of poise this morning; dressed impeccably in black leather accented with green and silver, his hair smoothed back. He had selected something less gaudy and ceremonial for the actual travel. They would not be meeting Sutur’s official emissary for several days, and would instead be with an escort. The heart of Muspelheim was warmer than the outer regions where Asgardians generally limited their trade, and a guide was required to both counsel them on the environment and ensure they did not offend any great houses by trespassing on their lands.
Loki had opted for something cooler, more understated, but decidedly layered. There would be no mistaking him for who he was, with a length of green cape draping from one shoulder and clipping fashionably at his waist, but also no risk of appearing threatening.
He emerged into daylight and picked his way quickly down a flight of stairs and out a yawning gate. No one noticed him move through the cool shadows of several arches that opened into a portion of Asgard’s gardens. It was warm for mid-spring, and he could smell the heat on the cherry blossoms. Sigyn was waiting, as they had agreed, and he smiled when he saw her.
“Good morning, Sigyn.” He hummed when he was close enough and, emboldened perhaps by the niggling awareness of the danger of their upcoming trip, stole a step closer and pressed a delicate kiss of greeting to her forehead. “I feel as if most of Asgard is holding its collective breath in waiting for our departure. Somehow that makes it all the better to hear the birds sing, and know that they are not.”
They’d agreed to this meeting days before, when the magnitude of this journey had sunk in and now, having come to it, he realized beginning with, ‘If something were to happen to me...’ sounded more than a bit melodramatic.
He smiled still, easy and gentle, even if the calm in his eyes was a trifle practiced, and slid a slight, decorative canister from a satchel at his side. There was a single lock of his raven hair, carefully preserved by spells, within. It was long and thick enough to braid; fitting for the customary ‘mourning’ lock.
“We have been assured of the Muspel’s intentions and I do, largely, believe them. I am not one to make judgements based simply on old grievances, but...” He offered it out to her, “There is always the possibility that Surtur’s temper will prove capricious.”
He did not voice the, ‘And I would do everything in my power to protect you if it came to that.’ but it was in his gaze, not quite hidden enough to be mistaken for anything else.
“In light of that risk, I grant you this day a lock of mourning to pay homage to my memory, as is our custom, in the event of my death.” Loki’s words were practiced ritual, something he had recited more than thrice in his life, but somehow sincere despite it. “With the Norns as my witness, let the passing of this lock be a testament as binding as the law that I consider you as dear to me as a blooded member of my house.”
