Work Text:
“Sigyn, you’re the bride. You shouldn’t be doing anything–”
“That’s nice,” he heard drift into the hallway, “give me that pin, will you?”
Whatever it was that had Sigyn’s bridal court so up in arms masked his approach well, not a word said as the god slid past the tall oaken doors and into the airy chamber. The assembled women buzzed about in their hive, talking among themselves, seeing to all the final crises before a wedding began in earnest. It was the absence of such movement that drew his attention towards their queen bee.
She had such a devil of a habit, knocking the breath from him. Even if he could only see her reflected in her looking glass, the well-polished metal didn’t lessen her beauty. Her skin was just as warm and tanned, the dark auburn of her hair bright as ever. The only way the sight could be made better was if those dark eyes were looking at him–
“Thank you, Sif,” his bride murmured, and what was happening finally hit him. Sigyn’s hair was set, quite artfully, and while he knew little and less of such grooming, he would think it was done.
His eyes dipped as Sigyn brought the pin downward, and a smile began to grow. There, seated quietly in his lover’s lap, was a two-faced little child. Hel regarded herself in the mirror with something like awe, any nervousness about her appearance having vanished. The sight was enough to make his heart swell, so rare it was. Her stepmother-to-be continued to busy herself with her work, dotting Hel’s dark hair with white plumage and delicate pearls.
She had his smile. As Hel’s lips parted into a toothy grin, he realized it all too easily, leaning against the door frame. There was precious little he would not give to save this moment, to keep Sigyn’s tenderness and his daughter’s happiness as a constant memento.
The girl was as still as water while Sigyn played with her dark locks, just as well-behaved as ever. Perhaps Hel might never be bold as Fenrir, or sociable as Jormungandr, but he hardly saw that as a flaw. She belonged deeply to herself, just as her mother had, just as he did. Even if her joy proved infectious, taking root within him, no one else could lay claim to it.
“Done,” Sigyn said, planting a kiss against the crown of Hel’s little head. The child continued staring at herself for sometime, fumbling fingers tracing her reflection with a sort of reverence. Sigyn had not dared to hide the rotted half of the little bird’s face, embracing both of Hel’s sides when styling all of her thick hair. The spell was broken only when she lifted her head, staring at some corner of the metal–
Leaping from Sigyn’s lap, Hel made her way past the rest of Sigyn’s bridal party, little hands clutching the fine fabric of her dress tightly. Her bare feet – always bare – padded across the stone floor, the jangle of her jewelry announcing her even from a distance. It no doubt helped the buzzing wedding party to avoid a collision withe the tiny girl,deftly weaving away from her as she drew closer to her father. “Papa,” she chirped, green eyes so wide as she found him, “I look so beautiful!”
“Hel–”
Whatever he meant to say, Freyja swiftly cut it out at the root, her voice carrying from a corner of the room that the groom could not see.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Loki.”
Then, swift on her heels, came Frigga’s more reasonable voice.
“Surely not before you’ve been dressed for the occasion. You are cutting it rather close.”
He could not say either was wrong.Then, he could not find anything to say to either of them.
“Sigyn has made me beautiful!” Hel trilled, and that much he could disprove. Gathering his only daughter into his arms, he studied her for a beat, tracing his thumb across the softness of her whole cheek. Would it be vanity, to speak what was to be said when he saw so much of himself, in her grin, in her eyes? Perhaps so, but there were far worse vices to have.
“No, Moonflower. You are always beautiful.”
He did not have to look to know Sigyn had approached, could feel her presence like a living part of him. He noticed, distantly, that she took Hel’s marred hand, so little but so withered, and pressed a kiss to the hardened flesh. She did not flinch away from the texture as it met her lips, but then, he had never known Sigyn to flinch away from anything in her life.
“He’s right, you know. I didn’t do a thing about it.”
As the girl’s smile widened, he could finally catch a glimpse of an inevitability he had always known: Someday, Hel would be able to recognize her own worth, would never let anyone take it from her again. That much, he mused, would be a gift from her mothers – the BOTH of them – rather than himself.
His daughter’s green eyes dipped low, a furrow rising to her pale brow. “Papa,”she began slowly, “Why are you not dressed for the wedding?” Such an attentive girl, he thought, when excitement didn’t narrow her vision. Chuckling to himself, the trickster adjusted the girl in his arms.
“Why, because I wanted to see my lovely girls. It’s bad luck for the bride to see the groom in his wedding clothes, after all!”
Sigyn narrowed her lips, trying to hold back her amusement as Hel mulled over the words. In a few short breaths, the girl had passed some judgment, looking back to her father with a needling look of concentration.
“It’s the groom that isn’t supposed to see the bride, Papa!”
Then, all at once, her hands came to cover his eyes. It was his turn to smile now, defeated by his own daughter’s knowledge.
“Is it? That’s my mistake. I best return to my chambers before I spoil anything else for the wedding. Thank you, my moonflower.” Delicately pulling her hands down, he offered a murmur to Sigyn next.
“I should probably make sure that the boys haven’t eaten Tyr, at any rate–”
Sigyn’s laugh was a melodious thing, even as it was borne of Tyr’s misfortune. Loki pressed a kiss to Hel’s temple, soaked in the giggle that it earned, and set his daughter back down. “I will see you at the wedding, dearest,” he said, earning another delighted smile from a girl who knew little and less of the feeling.
His green eyes glanced back to Sigyn, sparking at the sight of her, all her finery and jewels making her more a queen in his eyes than Frigga herself.
“And you, my sweet…”
The fabric adorning her arms was soft, and he left a ghost of a touch for it as he pulled her in. His lips found hers as they always did, always warm, always bewitching him, and she hummed into the moment. He could hear it for only the barest moment, before indigence overtook the chamber. He was a knave, tasting the honey before he has properly bought it, and already he heard Sif approaching, all bluster, to save the reputation of her companion.
Loki was no fool. He did not fancy being strung up the day of his wedding. So he stepped back, bowed low, and backed out of the room – not trusting the rest of the bridal party enough to turn his back on them.
“I will see you at the altar!”
He closed the door behind him, though not quickly enough to miss the soft burble of his daughter’s voice. The tone was one of understanding, as if the clouds had rolled back and granted her a revelation to rival Frigga’s own visions.
“Sigyn, Papa’s naughty, isn’t he?”