“I don’t understand, my lord.” Sigyn frowned. “I am real, I am! I — how can I prove this to you? Surely your waking life is not so terrible that … that the presence of someone as unworthy as I seems a dream?” She bit her lip, looking at him with fear and pity and a whirling, confusing sense of a pit opening up at her feet.
Loki said nothing but hugged her tightly into his chest. He had no answers for her nor any for himself. He felt as if he had been given another chance, but the hope… the hope made him waver. If he had no hope, nothing could be taken from him, none could hurt him. He knew all too well how much hope could kill your soul once it was decidedly terminated by someone or something. He didn’t know if he could handle this feeling right now. He didn’t know much of anything. He closed his eyes, resting his head on hers and held her as tightly as he could.
Sigyn blinked, deeply troubled by Loki’s silence and the way he was clinging to her. Although it was she who was wrapped in his arms as in a cocoon, she felt he was clinging to her for comfort. “Please, my lord,” she whispered, insinuating her arms about his waist, “I will not let you go.”
Sigyn’s words washed over him like a soft, comfortable wave of relief. He let out a gentle sigh and continued to hold her as the sun went down and twilight set in, bringing out the first stars of the night.
Tucking her head under Loki’s chin, Sigyn carefully stroked his back, humming softly under her breath. As his muscles loosened, soothing strokes morphed into lazy tracing of the bones under his skin, and she sighed longingly. The falling light, so similar to her own magic, made her feel safe, at peace, and a little bold.
“My lord?” she whispered against his throat. “Will you not tell me what troubles you so?”