"I have not left."
Sigyn's words are faint, a dying candle in the dark.
He opens his eyes. Poison falls into her grasp. She watches its progress and becomes a creature of mute attention. Thin-fingered, fragile, gray-gazed and unreadable. Sigyn has never been Sif, a viper in both strike and speech. Sif with her temper and hated black hair. Sif who is strong and passionate, vibrant and cruel. Sun bronzed lady of blades.
Sif who resents him. Sigyn who he may never fully know.
"Why?" croaks Loki, because he cannot answer the question himself.
She stares at him with all the warmth of a dead moth. "Do I owe you my tongue as well, son of Laufey?"
The exhale slithers from him, and he turns away. When his reply comes it is through a grin that makes his throat ache. "So I have become no more than jotun to you after all."
Her mouth twitches slightly, briefly. "I am here for my husband," says Sigyn, in even tone, "no matter the disgusting and pitiful creature he has become."
"Do you despise me?"
His wife smiles once more, but gives no answer.