Sigyn listened silently, letting her hands play up and down his spine while he talked. Dusk deepened to true night before he finished, and the little valley was hushed with the sounds of darkness. When Loki trailed off finally, she gently freed herself from his hold and stepped over to the stream.
It was the work of just a moment to fashion a cup from a borrowed leaf. “Drink, my lord,” she said softly, holding it out. There was something else in his past, she could sense it in the way he had stopped, but that would keep for another time. She understood, now, his constant tension, his amazement at her responses, and yet she could not help but feel sympathy for him, struggling so hard to be … what?
To live up to others’ expectations? How familiar a feeling, that.
“My prince, these are painful memories. Will you not put them aside for now?” she asked, voice soft.
He felt a little vulnerable when she pulled away from his arms. His mind raced. Had he said too much? Did she judge him unworthy by his past actions? Would she shun him now, as the others had? He clenched his jaw and cursed that small flame of hope that had been allowed to take root in his heart. Here was the let down. He should have expected this.
When Sigyn offered him the water, he took it, glad for the opportunity to wet his lips. He nodded silently at her words and turned away from her bringing his knees up to his elbows. He looked up into the stars again and wondered when she would drop the final axe. He hoped it would be sooner rather than later so he could carry on and chalk this up to an unfortunate lapse in judgement.
The line of his profile was sharp and pure in the moonlight, and Sigyn found her heart aching. Loki so clearly expected further condemnation, and yet all she felt was sympathy. Did they not all make mistakes? He had acted in good faith, of love for king and realm, and only a cruel fate had twisted it awry.
Deliberately, she knelt before his huddled body. “I will not let thee go,” she repeated, watching him with grave violet eyes, sliding into a familiar mode of speech, and added, “alone. Wilt not turn and speak to me?”
He turned his head at her voice and was met by her beautiful eyes. He stared hard at her, looking for the vilification, the doubt, the blame but found only… sympathy. Was it sympathy? Was it damnable pity? Was it regret at having made his acquaintance the night before?
Her words spoke volumes and made his heart ache as the hope violently rekindled itself, refusing to die.
He swallowed hard.
Oh, this man! Why did he tug at her heart so? Barely a day since they met, and she wanted to shield him from all the slings and arrows of a cruel universe. But he was proud, so proud. She thought perhaps even offering would wound that pride. Even speaking her sympathy would hurt him more.
Trying to keep her breathing calm, her bearing open, she returned him look for look under the stars, and hoped the darkness would conceal the desperate clenching of her hands in her lap. Patience. Let him come to her.