poetryforplebs:

She empties the bowl, and he writhes beneath her. He stopped screaming centuries ago.

Doesn’t mean she forgets the sound.
When she stands back up, arms shaking under the weight of the ever-present bowl, his eyes meet hers.

“Wife,” he rasps, smile curling even now (and others would think that he was mocking, but she knew better). “You are good to me,” he murmurs, and makes a move to reach out to her. The bindings clink (though they shouldn’t, realistically) and he falls back. The dashed expression is there and gone in an instant. 

Sigyn doesn’t make a sound. He can still smile, still tease even now. She can’t feel her face, frozen as it has been at his agony for too long. 

“What do you want?” he tries to purr, but pants instead. “How can I repay you?”

She opens her mouth, ignoring the steady plink plink plink above her. 

She meets his eyes and–

He is apologizing. 

She almost wants to laugh. 

He, the god of tricks and mischief and never regretting a thing. Apologizing. 

And to who? 

The daughter of her father, the friend turned enemy? 

No, Sigyn decides, shivering under the burden. That is not Sigyn’s role. 

She is his wife. 

The bowl is so heavy. He may have stopped screaming, but she can feel her own screams filling her lungs until her bones crackle like the ice and snow. And yet still–

She holds.

(She can’t stop. She won’t ever stop.)

Sigyn twists her head and smiles back at him. It feels wrong. But it will have to do. 

“Lie to me,” she commands him. 

Her husband smiles, because he understands. 

And then Loki opens his mouth and does what he promises.