Chapter Text
While they adore me on the throne of hell,
With diadem and sceptre high advanced
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery; such joy ambition finds.
Paradise Lost, John Milton
He sauntered past what he took to be a warden frantically trying to encourage a rowdy family to depart through the large glass doors. Neither she, nor the family, nor the other warden preparing to lock up saw him as he passed.
Though he would admit it to no one (and who was there to talk to in his own guise these days, even if honesty were to catch his interest?), Loki had been intrigued by the concept of museums since his last ill-fated visit to Midgard. Asgard’s treasures were either freely wielded, like that gaudy hammer of Thor’s, or held in the armoury, being far too dangerous for perusal by the general public. True, the Royal Library could be accessed by anyone who sought Frigga’s – and now, he supposed with a dull pain in his chest, his – permission, but that was usually for research, and few took up the offer. It was quite the display of power to lay out one’s hoard for the people to behold. Sometimes you had to begrudgingly admire the Midgardians.
But that was not the only reason he was here.
He hadn’t been impersonating Odin long before the gnawing discontent had started. He was not really king; Odin was. He was not really ruling, merely pretending to be Odin. He longed to rule as himself, but knew, with a bitterness that burnt, that it would not work. It would be nothing like Thor’s coronation. Even as king he would still be in Thor’s shadow, the unwanted one. He had decided it was better to be venerated as another than despised as himself, but the dissatisfaction would not leave him. And somehow the idea had come to him to slip away from Asgard, away from watchful eyes he must not make suspicious and from Odin’s grizzled visage in the mirror, and to look upon the face of his mythological counterpart.
His single effort to discover what the Midgardians believed of him had seen him furiously setting a book (hard to procure, too – Midgardian literature was a rare thing on Asgard) on fire upon finding shameless libel concerning a horse, so he could hardly say he was hoping to find some deep truth in this strange echo of himself – though the mortals, he had painfully noted, had seemed to know something of his Jötunn nature when he himself had not. But as a way to escape the charade for a time, Midgard and its museums and mythologies would suffice.
He squared his shoulders as he reached the gallery he had come for. The sign read, ‘Norse Mythology: Gods and Monsters’. He tried, unsuccessfully, to quell his thoughts.
Loki had barely started moving again before he came to an abrupt halt. He had believed the museum to be empty; he’d had no desire to navigate slack-jawed mortals. It should have been empty; they’d been locking up as he’d arrived. So why was there someone standing, back to him, looking at a painting? She wasn’t even wearing the uniform of the wardens. He debated leaving, but it had been an effort to slip away, and it wasn’t as though she could see him. But of course, she would be standing in front of the canvas labelled with his name. Damned mortals were always underfoot. He begrudgingly came to stand beside her to study the canvas he featured on.
And that was when she turned. As soon as he was alongside her, in the corner of her eye, she turned. But he should not have been in the corner of her eye, could not have been. He could not be seen, and yet she looked at him.
And then she spoke, this mortal who’d performed the impossible: “Umm... Hi?”
*
She’d been surprised to find someone else wandering around the gallery, of course, but his confusion she couldn’t make sense of. His reaction, the way those icy eyes widened and fixed on her, would have made sense in the doorway, when he must have first seen her, but why now? It was almost as if he were shocked she acknowledged him. And come on, she thought, surely a man who looks like that is used to being acknowledged?
She aimed for a friendly smile to smooth this odd situation over. “I thought the museum was empty–”
“As did I.” He was still looking at her curiously, lips slightly pursed.
“Huw, the director, he, ah, he let me in before the rush tomorrow when the exhibition opens; he knew I’d be interested to see this,” she gestured to the painting before them.
She expected him to provide his own explanation, but he did not; he’d turned away from her and was now focussed on the label.
“Loki and Sigyn, Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg, 1810, oil on canvas,” it read. “This painting depicts the punishment of Loki, the trickster god. He has been bound to three stones with chains made from the entrails of his and his wife Sigyn’s son, Narfi, torn apart by their other son, Vali, whom the gods turned into a wolf. A serpent has been placed above him to drip venom onto him. Sigyn holds a bowl to collect the venom and stop it falling on her husband. When the bowl is full she must empty it, and in that time the venom falls on Loki and he writhes in agony; it was believed his writhing caused earthquakes.”
She looked back to the canvas. If the unexpected interaction was over, she may as well get back to what she came here for. Avoiding staring at him was probably a good move, too. A part of her was wishing she’d worn something a bit prettier.
She’d seen Loki and Sigyn before, of course, but only ever online, and a flat digital image could never do justice to it in real life. Finally seeing it in the flesh, she marvelled at it. Loki’s body she’d always felt was wrong, too bulky, too much like a titan and just not how she imagined him, but his face, the depth of emotion there... Yet it was Sigyn that held the focus, that captivated, and that was why she’d always preferred this portrayal of the story to any other she’d seen.
“Why?” He jolted her from her reverie. She couldn’t tell if he was thinking out loud or demanding an answer from somewhere.
“Why what?”
He cast those intense eyes to her again. Hadn’t been addressing her then, good to know. He answered nevertheless: “Why does she protect him?”
She suspected there were more questions lurking behind that ‘why’.
“Because she loves him.”
She wondered if he’d laugh. He did not, but his expression was dark as he held her in his gaze. Her nervous talking kicked in.
“Sigyn gets a terrible rap in mythology. Scholars write about her like she’s some kind of doormat, waiting around for Loki like a good, meek little wife whilst he’s off sleeping with anyone and everyone and having kids with Angrboða. But she’s incredible. Her name relates to victory, and she’s referred to as ‘incantation-fetter’, a fascinating suggestion of a magical connection. But most relevant to this,” she gestured again at the painting, “is that scholars never give Sigyn enough credit for what she’s doing here. The gods have ordered Loki’s punishment, but to the best of her ability she intervenes. This isn’t the action of a downtrodden woman whose governing principle is obedience; this is an act of defiance committed by a woman in love. It’s why this painting’s so wonderful. Just look at Sigyn’s face. Eckersberg captures her courage, the pain of this experience, her fear for her husband, her desperate need to protect him, her fury at what’s been done to those she loves...”
She ran to a stop. He was still looking at her with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. He said nothing for a long time, his mouth a firm line.
“Why is this of such interest to you?” he asked at length.
Indicating the painted Sigyn she said, “She’s my namesake.”
Flushing without knowing exactly knowing why, she held out her hand to him and smiled. “Sigyn.” She nodded at the painting. “A pretty poor likeness, I know, but there you go.”
His jaw clenched and there was some strange look in his eyes, but he did take her hand. He did not shake it, really, simply held it in his own for three heartbeats. His hand was large with strong, elegant fingers. Her pulse juddered.
“My mum was sort of obsessed with Sigyn, hence the name choice,” she said as he released her, her voice a little breathless. “She wrote this book – it’s in the giftshop here, actually – this feminist text about magic, witches, sorceresses... She poured over that ‘incantation-fetter’ thing...” She trailed off, realising she wasn’t being very coherent, and he probably wasn’t even interested.
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. If she’d thought his gaze had been intense before... The trope of reading faces came to her mind; he really did look as though he were trying to decipher a complex text.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she blurted out.
His scrutiny of her became almost unbearable, but she met his eyes. The idea suddenly hit her that she was meant to know who he was and didn’t, and that was why he was acting so weirdly. Was he someone famous? He did look like he could be famous: breath-stealingly good-looking, and that suit couldn’t have been cheap. His hairstyle was hardly standard, either. And she’d been so out of everything since...
Suddenly his lips quirked into a smile. The brooding intensity faded to the background, and suddenly he looked... well, mischievous.
“Guess.”
“What?”
“Guess my name.”
She blinked. The ‘famous’ theory was gaining traction. And was he...? No, he was definitely not flirting, don’t be stupid Sigyn.
“Rumpelstiltskin?” she joked weakly.
He raised his eyebrows at her. The message was clear: You can do better than that.
“Okay, okay... Well, if you don’t want to tell me your name, it must be because it’s really embarrassing,” or you’re someone I’d immediately recognise if I hadn’t suddenly become a recluse, but we won’t think about that, “and you already know my frankly ridiculous name, so... Maximilian?”
He made a face at her and she laughed.
“Oh no, worse than that, eh?” She cast around again for the most embarrassing name she could think of. “Clarence?”
He snorted. “No. And you’re all out of guesses.”
“You never said how many guesses I got!”
He gave her a withering look. “It is always three guesses. Everyone knows that.”
“Well what am I supposed to call you if I’ve run out of guesses for your name?”
He tapped one of those perfect fingers to his jaw, and glanced at the painting again. A wicked grin spread across his face.
“Loki.”
Was that a pick-up line? But why would he...
“Sigyn!”
She turned in the direction of Huw’s voice.
He appeared in the doorway, out of breath from the stairs. His familiar smile was plastered across his face, with no hint of surprise; he must have known ‘Loki’ would be here.
Or so she thought until she glanced at where he had been standing and saw no one.
She looked around wildly, blinking, no longer trusting her eyes. Huw faltered as he came towards her.
“Sigyn?” This time when he said her name it was tinged with concern.
“There was... there was a man here...”
His voice sounded fully worried now. “There’s no one here, Sigyn... The staff all left ten minutes ago, apart from the night security watching the cameras.”
She was unnerved, concerned she’d finally snapped under the stress, and worse, she could see Huw was thinking exactly the same thing.
“Are you alright?”
She felt the weight behind the question, knew how much he was trying to encompass with it, and shied away from it. Huw was lovely, had known her since she was a child, but she didn’t want to have this conversation with him.
She was ready to insist there was someone there, to bolster herself as much as to convince him, but something stopped her. Either she was going mad, and arguing would only make her look madder, or... or a man with long hair and an expensive suit had just listened to her prattle about mythology and then vanished into thin air. And that needed thinking about before it could be spoken of.
She nodded a little stiffly and said, “As alright as I can be. Thank you for letting me see this. It means a lot.”
He smiled at her awkwardly and pulled her into a one-armed hug as he led her down the stairs.
*
Loki ducked out from his hiding place when they’d gone. Not being able to rely on his invisibility was a great inconvenience. He could hide from Heimdall but not from some voluble mortal? What in the Nine was happening? He had a suspicion, of course, and it made his icy blood boil. At least she hadn’t been prepared for him to teleport. He stood contemplating for a time – his darkening mood not appeased even by the sight of a painting of Thor looking almost monstrous himself, striking down some very human-looking giants with a frankly pathetic little Mjölnir as goats pulled him along in a wagon – then turned and strode to the pathway that would take him back to Asgard.