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He has been aware of Synne watching him for a long time, as if suddenly a new and kinder spotlight were focussed on him. It is little trouble to manufacture an encounter in a location inimical to spellwork, to trap the girl so he can probe her intentions.
It’s something of a shock to him to discover just how completely transparent she is, how utterly guileless. It’s unfamiliar … and desperately welcome. A friend. A friend with no ulterior motives, no creeping desires. He latches on to it with the vigour of a drowning man for water, and nurturing the relationship is easy.
Not like his relationships with the Warriors Three (impossibly grandiose name for the trio of fighters that follow his brother’s every whim) or his relationship with Sif; struggling, stunted things centred around the training rings and his combat-mad brother. His frustrating, golden brother. That relationship doesn’t bear thinking about.
Yet somehow Synne coaxes it out of him, slowly; with her simple silences, slyly worded questions, merry laughter, and continuous, unflagging interest in him, over his brother. He can’t remember a time when he has been the focus of someone’s sole attention in a good way, though he knows it must have happened. He does notice, over time, that she never takes sides. So a seed of doubt remains.
After all, he is no stranger to deep-laid plans.
He hopes Synne doesn’t notice how he’s been watching her; they have been working together over the shapeshifting spells for some time now. He, of course, had little trouble mastering the basic spell-runes, but Synne struggles, so he has been tutoring her. And watching her.
He finds it a little troubling, how much he can’t keep his eyes off her. True, she is an elegant exemplar of a young Vanr lady, blossoming out into curves and long limbs, joyous face framed as ever by tumbling and unruly blonde curls. But there are other ladies of Asgard who cast her immature beauty into shadow (Amora, whose epithet is the Enchantress, comes to mind), and he can find no reason within himself why his attention should be wrapped up in this one.
He considers laying the matter before an adult, as he had done with ease as a child, but adolescent sensibilities hold him back. And he keeps watching her. Watching is all he can bring himself to do, ridden by fear of rejection as he is. Synne is the one person in Asgard he feels he can claim as <i>his</i> friend; he can’t countenance disrupting that.
But … is she watching him? No, more likely her mind is caught up in thoughts of the many young warriors that throng the courts of Asgard (boring, sweaty, uncouth fellows). He calls her name, and nothing has ever surprised him so much as what follows. He does not mean to reveal his hesitant hopes, but the word tumbles out of his mouth before he can call it back.
And then she is kissing him shyly, and instinct overwhelms caution; his arms go round her supple form and he can hardly bring himself to let go. But he has to know; the doubt will devour him if he does not ask. “Synne, are you sure?” It nearly chokes him to say it, but he forces the words out. “Is it not my brother you want?”
Her answer surprises and delights him, and even as she bespells his outer clothing away, he spares a moment to wonder how he ever could have doubted her. She has always been loyal. He pulls her down, unable to bear another moment without kissing her sweet mouth again. In fact, every bit of her body should be kissed and worshiped, and he proceeds to do so, removing her clothes with the same spell, and beginning with her temples and working down.
Afterward, as they lie together in his bed (he cannot quite believe his luck), she shapes him a sweet compliment, and slyly demands more kisses. The joy on her face makes him feel better than he ever has before; Synne’s radiant smile is entirely due to him. Their kisses become slow and languorous, and he takes the time to try some of the other things he has overheard Thor and Fandral mention. The warmth of her body next his is glorious.
What, he wonders, has he done to earn this?
And how long before it, too, is dragged away?
He resolves, on the verge of sleep, to cling as tightly as he can. If nothing else, this one thing will be his alone.