~Next Day, Sigyn’s Chambers~

Burning yellow blazed across the inside of her eyelids, and scrunching up her face, Sigyn pulled the soft copper silk over her face, a low gravelly growl coming from under the covers at the sound of happy whistling.

“Must you do that, Kyaer?” she mumbled as she threw the bedcover down and sat up, a deep scowl wrinkling her brow.

The balcony’s drapes had been pulled back, revealing Asgard’s blazing dawn. She had not slept enough, not even close. After Loki’s seething exit from the night meal, to her great shame, she’d sulked and excused herself from the company of Thor’s friends and had rushed to her chambers to fetch her longbow and arrows. Firing the weapons into the burlap covered dummy had been soothing, but then Thor had shown up.

Despite his unexpected brotherly affections somewhat soothing the sting of Loki’s bite, she’d wanted him to leave.  Something deep within her soul had told her “this is wrong.”  Despite their quarrel, and despite having only just met him, she’d felt oddly loyal to Loki, and allowing his beefy brother to wrap her in his cloak had felt treacherous.  When the glass of the library window shattered, the look of betrayal on Loki’s face had been heartbreaking.

She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of him thinking even for a second that she had entertained the possibility of a romance with his brother.  She cringed.  Nothing about Thor was romantically appealing.

She gave her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Lady Sigyn, but I could only let you sleep in so long. The queen expects you in less than half an hour.”

Sigyn’s eyes blew wide—Oh shit.

She threw her feet over the side of the bed and ran to the washroom. She relieved herself, splashed water on her face, and finger combed her hair. Kyaer held a silk gown out to her when she hurried back into the bedroom. Oh, this dress was so pretty, and she thanked her before realizing that the dress was… Black? Oh, so now they give her something black.

She spoke through her teeth. “Where was this last night?”

How utterly frustrating! She really could have used anything other than the green she’d sported, but everything else had been so horribly pastel. That horrid dress had been her downfall with Loki. Distracted momentarily at the thought of his beautiful face, she played with the neckline of the dark garment while Kyaer tied the fastenings on the straps.

“I informed the queen that perhaps you preferred dark fabrics, and she had this, along with a dozen similar dresses, sent here after the night meal. You can check the armoire later, if you like. I  replaced the old ones.” Kyaer’s cheeks were pink when she bowed her head as she backed away from Sigyn. “I’m so sorry that it wasn’t available for last meal.”

Feeling terrible for having snapped at her, Sigyn gave her a quick hug. “It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. But I am late. I’ll see you later this evening, Kyaer,” she said as she stepped into her shoes and slung a charcoal-colored leather satchel containing her spell books across her body and then dashed out the door.

Kyaer let out a nervous breath and began making the bed. She yelped, a hand flying to her mouth when Sigyn came running back into the room.

“Forgot breakfast,” Sigyn said, out of breath as she grabbed an apple from the tray of food Kyaer had put on her dressing table and turned on her heel to run back out. She stuck her head back in, scaring Kyaer again, and shouted, “And thank you for the dress!”

Chomping into the fruit, she waved bye to Kyaer who gave her a nod, and she took back off into the hall, not bothering with an apology as several servants dodged her to keep from being knocked over.

---

~The Queen’s Business Quarters~

Hearing a light knock on her door, Frigga flicked her wrist, a light golden mist shimmering around it, and the doors swung open, bidding a frazzled Sigyn to step in.

“You are not late, dearest.  Do not fret.  But,” Frigga smirked, “you almost were.”

 She let out a little chuckle and smiled at the queen.  She could see a hint of Loki in the woman’s smirk, and it made her chest ache a little.

“How are you this morning?” Sigyn asked.

“I am well, my dear.  Now, let’s get straight to it, shall we?” Frigga gestured to a plush steel blue armchair. “Tell me which magical gifts you possess. Freya was so secretive.”

Taking the seat, relieved that the queen was not upset, Sigyn relaxed, speaking plainly.

“I think it’s called elder flutningsmaður?  Is that right?  Fire magic.  I can manipulate fire, but I cannot conjure it.” She lowered her eyes, suddenly self-conscious in the company of the mightiest sorceress in the nine.

The queen raised an eyebrow in question. “What is wrong, dearest?”

Shaking her head, Sigyn chuckled nervously. “It’s just…. I’m a bit embarrassed. I call myself a sorceress, and yet I can barely remember magic terminology.”

Frigga nodded her head and flipped to the introduction of the book she’d been holding. “I sent this same book to your chambers last night. I assume you brought it?”

Nodding, Sigyn reached into her satchel and retrieved the thick black velvet bound book, opening it to the same page.

“You need to know the ancestral language for spell casting. I will translate. You write.” Smiling warmly, Frigga handed her an endless ink quill. “Seiðr, Seiður. Sorcery, sorcerer, or in my case, and yours, sorceress.  And you were correct.  One who has fire magic is called ‘eldur flutningsmaður’.  You are incorrect, however, when you say that you can only manipulate fire.  Fire magic is, in a sense, mind magic, which is called ‘huga Seiðr’.  And if you can command fire to do your will with only your thoughts, then you are certainly able to create it with your thoughts, as well.  It’s just a more advanced skill. It might be helpful to speak with my son.  Loki is quite talented in all forms of mind magic.”

“Is that so?” Sigyn feigned ignorance, forcing her eyes to stay open, despite wanting to close them and just daydream about him.

Even the mention of his damn name made her warm.  The queen eyed her, and Sigyn wondered if she could also read minds.  Is that where Loki learned it from?

Oh gods…please no.

Clearing her throat, she looked down at her notebook so her hair could fall forward and hide the deep blush spreading from her cheeks and down her neck.  After the previous night, she was well acquainted with Loki’s talent for mind magic.  If Frigga could read minds, she at least spared her from the embarrassment of further discussing her gods damn gorgeous son.

“You do realize that fire magic can be quite dangerous?”

All too familiar with the dangerous properties of her own magic, Sigyn slowly raised her eyes to meet Frigga’s and half smiled.

“I’m aware, yes.”

---

Three hours went by in the queen’s presence and Sigyn still hadn’t successfully conjured even a tiny flame.  Frigga, of all people, should have been able to teach her, should she not?  Surely, she was just distracted by you-know-who.  She couldn’t even think of his name.  Seriously.  This was going to be a problem.

Utterly humiliated (and almost positive that Frigga could read minds) she gathered her things and excused herself when the lesson ended, thanking the queen for her time.  What a pathetic excuse for a sorceress she was.  Returning to her chambers, she fell face first on the bed, pounding her palms into the fabric angrily.  He had returned to the forefront of her mind.

In truth, he’d never left the forefront.  He refused to leave her thoughts for even a moment’s sanity.  It was shameful how much she thought of him after the way he’d treated her.  Had she no respect for herself at all?  Rolling to her back, she sighed heavily and threw her arm over her eyes. 

Set your sights lower, he’d said.

Norns, she’d been damn near close to retrieving the tiny black dagger she kept strapped near the top of her thigh and slamming it into his hand— the hand that had provocatively squeezed said thigh —when he said that to her.  Yet she still wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and feel his mouth on hers.

She hated the mix of emotions.  She couldn’t decide if she wanted to run away from or toward him, and if she ran toward him, would she kiss him or stab him?  The more she thought of him, the angrier she became, and as her anger grew, the dying embers in the fireplace roared to life, moving out from the hearth, and spreading across the rug.

“Shit!” As heat and smoke filled the space, painful hacking coughs ripped from her throat.

Calling on her seiðr, which had failed her miserably that morning, she held her hand out, palm down, over the nearing flames.  Dark mist dripped from her fingers, hovering above the flames, drenching, and snuffing them out instantly; soft black tendrils of smoke coiled up gracefully at the loss of their source.

This was not good.  No, this was terrible.  Her eyes swept across the ash covered and smoke-filled room.  Asgard was full of candles, torches, fire pits, and hearths.  If she continued losing control of her magic every time she was angered, the entire palace would go up in flames.

She pushed her hair back from her face and grabbed her longbow and arrows.  Violence was the best medicine for her rage, right? Right. Leaving her quarters, she made way for the training arena.

---

~Loki’s Chambers~

If Loki spent every night tossing about like he had last night, he would have permanent black circles under his eyes.  Seeing Sigyn with his brother took his rage to new heights.  Honestly, from the library window, it looked like Thor was romancing her, but then her eyes had met Loki’s, and there was no doubt in his mind that his brother was unsuccessful in his attempts, if that was indeed what the man had been doing.

He slept not a wink, lying there on the black sheets of his huge wrought iron bed, staring at the posters fashioned as serpents with jade eyes coiling up ten feet.  He hadn’t wanted to snuff out the green candlelight glowing dimly from the emerald crystal chandelier because the flames reminded him of Sigyn for some reason.  He’d hoped the flames would persuade his brain to dream about her.

So much for THAT theory.

When he arose mid-afternoon, his hair was thoroughly tangled, matted with the cold sweat that covered his naked body.  He’d been so hot with rage after breaking the library window that he’d barely closed the doors behind him before stripping nude and throwing himself on the bed, pale skin turned fever red.  He didn’t bother with a bath now but instead washed quickly under the glass encased shower in his bathroom.  Turning off the water, he yanked his towel from the shelf and dried himself before grabbing his armor.

Once he was dressed, he went to his balcony and breathed in the cold air, letting it wash over him and bring his temperature down.  Normally, he awoke with the dawn so he could get to his magic studies as early as possible before the responsibilities of the day took over, but he’d been lazy today.  Well, not lazy— just overwhelmed to the point of not knowing the point of getting up at all.

Looking out across the palace gardens, he was thrown off by the shadows.  They were in all the wrong places, and he could hear the clanging of swords on shields from the arena.  Speaking of the arena, he needed to have a little talk with his brother.

Turning on his heel, he walked straight to his desk and grabbed his weapons.  He sheathed his dagger in his boot along with his set of throwing knives which he hid snugly within the leather of his outer tunic.  He wasn’t sure what his plans were for Thor, but he needed to be prepared for a fight.

---

~The Training Fields~

Volstagg brought his heavy ax down on his hay filled enemy and frowned at the lack of resistance.  Fighting with practice dummies was as exciting as it was bloody− thoroughly and disappointingly not.  Sif gripped her sword, swinging at Hogun with a huge smile plastered on her face.  Offensive, defensive, and evasive…. every technique had been burned into the inside of her skull long ago.

Fighting was her first love.  Well, that wasn’t true.  Thor had won her heart long before she’d held her first weapon.

Volstagg laughed as Hogun came at him. “Yes, Hogun, spar with me!  You’ve outdone Sif!  And these sack adversaries do not fight back!”

Annoyed, Sif blew her hair out of her face.  Her favorite sparring partner, Fandral, was busy with another soldier, so she turned in a circle, looking for a challenger.  Spotting Loki descending the stairs, she smiled.

Honestly, the dark prince was her true favorite, more so than Fandral.  Loki’s fighting technique was unlike any other she’d met, and his clever and sarcastic retorts during a fight were entertaining.

As he drew closer, though, she frowned.  Something was off with him.  He looked positively murderous.  She followed the direction of his eyes.  He was focused on his brother.  Thor was engaged in a battle without the aid of Mjölnir.  She looked back to Loki.  He was picking up speed.  She didn’t see a weapon, but she knew he had a dagger sheathed in his boot, and her chest tightened, her tear ducts filling quickly.

He often looked as though he would kill Thor, but this was different.  She’d never thought he really would kill his brother before, but he had murder in his eyes now, and without Thor’s hammer in his way, Loki stood a chance of being successful.  There was no way in Hel that she would let him get any closer to his target.  She ran toward him, her sword at the ready and stopped directly in front of him.

“Loki.”

Coming to a sudden halt, he glared. “Sif.”

What the Hel did she want?  Did he look like he was in the mood for sparring?  Seeing the pleading look in her eyes, he guessed it had something to do with his brother. 

Coming to the oaf’s defense again? Good gods, that woman has the WORST taste in men.

She inched closer to him, feeling small next to his long frame. “It’s not worth it, Loki.  Whatever it is.  He’s your brother for Valhalla’s sake.  When will you two stop this?”

He tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips, seemingly considering her words, but she knew better.  He listened to no one.  Even less so when he was pissed off.  He closed the gap between them in one step, one hand wrapped around her throat, his grip just tight enough to suggest the seriousness of the situation, but not tight enough to cut off her air supply.

He spoke through his teeth. “Let. Me. Pass.”

Holding her sword steady with one hand, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it off her throat.  He tried to shove past her then (truly he had no wish to fight her!), but she put a hand on his chest and shook her head.  Blowing out a hot breath, he swiped his hair from his eyes.  Did she really think to stand in the gap for Thor?  Was she really that idiotic?  Did this insipid woman really think she could best him?

Side eyeing her, he unsheathed his dagger and reminded himself to not use his magic because that really would kill her.  Despite her best efforts to hide it, he knew she feared him at that moment.  He could literally hear her heart pounding.

“You can still back out of this, Sif,” he warned, watching her through narrowed eyes as she steadied herself for a fight against someone who she knew could do some serious damage to her.

“As can you,” she countered, trying to control her shaking voice.

“I can,” he said, his voice low and threatening, “but I won’t.”

She responded with a cry of anger and then lunged at him.

---

Sigyn ignored the soldiers staring at her as she ran down the steps into the training arena.  The Crimson Hawks, Odin’s finest warriors, were a burly crew of huge intimidating men, and she probably looked tiny and completely out of place to them.

Whatever.

She didn’t care what anyone thought of her right then.  No, all that mattered was the anger ripping her apart from the inside.  She needed to shoot some arrows, or all the torches around the arena would genuinely explode.

Her quiver, delicate evergreens carved into the painted black wood, hung at her back.  Twelve razor sharp black arrows, jade and silver feathers molded carefully into the ends, peaked out the top.  The curved longbow was slung across her body, left shoulder to right hip.  She hiked up the long black skirt as she crossed the uneven terrain to spare it from the wet field as best as she could.  Dammit, she should have changed into her armored leggings instead.

Ridiculous dress.

She heard a woman cry out suddenly, and it drew her eyes away from her original destination.  Searching for the source of the sound, her eyes blew wide, and her jaw dropped upon seeing the man who caused her fitful and sleepless night locked in a fight with Sif, and they were most certainly not sparring.  No, this was a true battle, and she knew that Sif hadn’t acquired the title “Goddess of War” without merit.  Gripping her bow strap tighter, her eyes stung as she watched Loki drop to the ground, just barely avoiding the tip of Sif’s sword.

Um… Hel no.

If he were injured (or worse… please NO), she would end that woman herself.  Despite her better intentions, she felt the deadly heat flowing through her veins and the accompanying black coils of smoke appeared at the hem of her dress.

---

Loki moved to a low squat, one arm outstretched in front of his body, the other across his face, just below his eyes, and had a reverse grip on his dagger, pointed at Sif.

“You cannot best me, Sif. You never have.”

Sif held her sword as a staff, close to her body, as she rocked from one foot to another. “The blade I wield has bested many men twice my size.”

“Perhaps, but you know well that there are no men like me, Sif, so take care with your words.  My magic hurts far more than my dagger.  Don’t make me use it.” Spoken through clenched teeth, his words were as sharp as his knife.

Sure, he’d told himself he wouldn’t use his magic, but Sif had chosen the worst time (testosterone was clearly at peak level) to pick a fight with him.  Not to mention, he was convinced that she was trying to kill him, not just hurt him, what with the blows she was attempting— which was insane.  Did she have any idea what Thor would do if she killed his only brother?  Every hope she’d ever had of being that idiot’s paramour would be shattered.

He was going to end this childish game, and in that moment, he didn’t care if she was seriously injured in the process.  He was done caring at all.  Everyone always came to the defense of his golden brother, and Loki was far beyond sick of it.  As though Thor of all people needed a champion, for Hel’s sake.

He kicked forward, the sole of his foot nearly colliding with her chest, but she dodged the blow by falling to the side, one hand on the ground.  She quickly corrected her vulnerable position, placing her other hand over her head, sword still in her hands, and flipped herself over sideways, returning to her original low stance.  She tried to pierce his side with the end of her sword, but he bent, his hands balancing on the ground, twisted his torso and brought a long leg down on her weapon, knocking it out of her grasp.

Eyes blown wide, she arched back to retrieve her only defense, but he didn’t allow it, flipping his body, back facing her front, pulling his knee back, his foot making painful contact with her face.  She heard the crack before the blood spewed from her nose.  Stars appeared behind her eyelids in her temporarily stunned state, and she planted her feet firmly on the ground.

She didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly the blade with the serpent handle was between her ribs with Loki’s hand wrapped tightly around its end.  She heard her own scream— glass shattering, ear piercing—and saw him tear the dagger away, drenched in the same blood that was now pouring out of her open wound.

Even wounded, she still tried to strike back, for which he had to give her credit, however, this was just ridiculous.  He was done with this.  He dropped below the swing of her sword, and balancing on his hands, his body hovering parallel to the ground, he swung both legs behind her knees, kicking her legs out from underneath her, and she crashed onto the hard ground.  He sighed heavily at the sound of her bones (hopefully just a few ribs) cracking under the weight of her heavy armor and pushed to his feet.  Only then did he realize that all around him, soldiers had stopped sparring to watch him and Sif.

So… had the lot of them been afraid to break up the decidedly dangerous fight?  For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why they had just stood there and watched as their sister in arms got her ass handed to her.  He shrugged his shoulders.

Not my problem.

Swiping his hair out of his face, he dusted off his sleeves and peered at her.  She wasn’t getting up.  She also didn’t appear to be breathing.  His eyes blew wide— no, no, no he had not legitimately killed one of Thor’s best friends.  That had not happened.   No, surely she was just… playing dead.

Oh shit.

Far on the other end of the arena, he heard his brother’s gut-wrenching cry, and Loki ducked instinctively, thinking Mjölnir would collide with his chest at any moment.  When that didn’t happen, he stood to his full height and turned to face his brother, who was running toward him faster than he had ever seen.  Knowing his dagger wouldn’t be enough, he sheathed it and forced the magic in his veins to flow faster, green light sparking at his fingertips.

A different voice sounded from across the field, then, pulling him from his “how do I get out of this alive” thoughts.

“LOKI!”

It was the voice he heard when the window shattered last night, the voice that sent shivers down his spine.  He turned to see Sigyn running toward him, faster than Thor even, and black smoke was trailing behind her.  As she neared, the smoke whipped around in front of her, and he felt the heat.  It came upon him painfully quick, and his skin suddenly felt aflame beneath the heavy leather of his garments.  Equal parts horrified and amazed, he gaped as Sif’s body lit on fire.

What the fuck…

Sigyn’s usually light eyes turned black as she continued toward him, and he heard her scream “NO!” angrily as her hand flew out in front of her face.  Black mist shot out from her fingers, flying twenty feet through the air as fast as Mjölnir and enveloped the flames overtaking Sif’s torn and broken body, snuffing out the fire in an instant.

Loki was stunned.  In nine hundred years, he’d never seen such a powerful display of magic.  She’d created and commanded fire right before his eyes.  Chest heaving with some odd mix of fear and arousal, he gazed darkly at her.

Lips parted, she was breathing hard, one hand clutching her chest, the other holding her hair up off her neck, which was clearly damp with sweat.  Her skirt was torn all the way up her right leg, exposing her knee-high black boots and a black dagger strapped to an oh-so-defined and smooth thigh as the wind tossed the fabric aside.  When his eyes moved  back up from her thigh to her face, he realized she was staring at him, too.

He was poised to run to her, to drop to his knees in front of her and slide his hands up her legs (yes, with everyone watching because he did not care), but before that little fantasy could play itself out, his brother was upon him.  Blessedly, the man wasn’t trying to rip out his throat but rather just push him out of the way to get to Sif.

Thor fell to the ground pulling her wounded body up into a tight embrace and calling for the healers. “What have you done, Loki?!  How could you?! How could you?!”

He barely heard Thor’s words because he was far too focused on the woman standing not ten feet from him.  His brother turned toward her then, his blond hair whipping into his face, and shot her a searing glare when she looked at him.

“When Sif wakes, if she wakes— Eir willing! —I will send both of you so far into the depths of Helheim that Odin himself won’t be able to drag you back!” Arm extended, gripping Mjölnir, he flew, disappearing from their sight, Sif wrapped in his free arm.

Sigyn froze, staring at his red cape as it disappeared from her sight.  His words were a broken record in her mind.  What had she done?  She recalled seeing Loki and Sif engaged in deadly battle, the silver of their sharp enchanted blades glinting in the sun, and fear had just… well… taken over.  It had sprung up within her as a mountain top exploding, fiery lava spewing from its broken dome, and her imagination had run wild in the worst way.

She’d envisioned the end of a sword skewering his gut, but when her vision had, thankfully, not come to fruition and instead his dagger tore into Sif’s flesh as easily as a letter opener through paper, she’d praised Odin, silently hating herself for doing so.  More so than witnessing the fight, it was the sight of a certain thunder god (with death in his eyes) coming at his younger brother that made her realize her worst fear: Loki dying.

She knew of Thor’s love for Sif, and his brother had left that woman bloodied and gasping for breath in the dirt at his feet.  The thought of losing Loki, just when she’d found him, had nearly paralyzed Sigyn; that momentary paralysis— that fear —had caused her heart to drop into her stomach, and that was the second she lost control (which was already lacking) of her magic.

Yes, the optics were terrible, but she hadn’t aimed for Sif —she hadn’t aimed at all!  Shit, it all just… sort of… happened.  Out of nowhere.  Well, not nowhere— the cause was pretty damn obvious.  Not that it was of any consequence, since she doubted her intentions (or lack thereof) toward Sif would matter to the Asgardian authorities.

It’s not MY fault that Sif HAPPENED to be in the damage zone… right?  It’s also not MY fault that SHE was knocked unconscious after that failed attempt to MURDER Loki, right? I protected a prince of Asgard, right?

Sigyn slammed her eyes shut to keep her tears from streaming down her face.  Oh gods, no one would buy that line of … ahem… defense.  She was going to Hel for sure.  Guilt wracked her body, and she shook uncontrollably from the mixture of magic and adrenaline.

Gratefully, she felt the presence of someone behind her suddenly, which spared her from ruminating on the nauseating guilt any longer.  Even without seeing his face, she knew who it was.  Slowly turning on her heel, she looked up into emerald eyes that instantly hypnotized her into an unnatural calm.  Reaching a hand up, she pushed a loose strand of raven hair behind his ear.

Loki closed his eyes at the contact, relishing in the heat of her fingers grazing the cold skin of his cheekbone.  She grasped the back of his neck and took a step forward, not a pebble’s width between them, and he bent his head toward her face.  She felt his hand, fingers splayed, flat against the small of her back, and her heart raced at his proximity.  He was a magnet pulling her to him, bending her to his will.  Resistance was futile, as they say; she exhaled heavily as their foreheads touched.

Just breathe, she silently told herself, and she knew he heard it when he smiled in response. His hand moved up to the space between her shoulder blades as his other arm wrapped around her waist, molding her to his much taller, lean body.  Her eyelids closed, the last sight having been his parted lips moving achingly slowly to her own mouth.

They ignored the soldiers scattered throughout the arena, gawking at their open display.  Lost in the moment, they did not hear the cawing of two ravens circling over them momentarily before flying to the palace.

“Prince Loki! Lady Sigyn!”

Loki’s head shot up, eyes wide, pulling away from what would have surely been the most passionate kiss of his life thus far, when the guards approached.  Sigyn groaned at the loss before realizing the voice had been that of one of Odin’s personal guards.  Cautiously turning to face the yellow caped warrior addressing them, she willed herself to stand tall.

Those ravens, of whom she’d been vaguely aware, were Huginn and Muninn, the Allfather’s personal seers and messengers.  For certain, they’d seen Sif’s mangled body, Loki standing over her with a dagger in his hand, and her blood on his leather armor.  They’d seen her body burst into flames, after the smoke shot out of Sigyn’s hand.  They’d seen all of it.  They were the king’s eyes when his body was not present.

“His majesty demands your presence in the throne room.”

Loki and Sigyn separated from each other and followed the soldier who’d spoken.  Two more flanked their sides and four followed behind, swords at the ready.  She watched as this raven-haired prince stepped gracefully across the rocky terrain, his head held high.  Either he was not afraid, or he was an extremely good actor.  Probably both.  He was the God of Mischief, after all.  He’d probably been scolded by his father thousands of times.

Well, she had never been scolded by Odin, and she’d never been more terrified in her life.  Focusing on holding the ripped skirt together so as not to give everyone a show, she did not see him looking at her, his eyes suddenly moist.  He reached for her hand, which was curled into a fist at her side, his fingers grazing her knuckles.  She looked up at him, and seeing fear written on his pale face, she relaxed her fingers and grasped his hand tightly.

Huh… maybe he IS afraid of his father.

Dark clouds collided, and an icy torrent of wind whipped about them as a wretched cry pierced through the storm.  Looking toward the sound, they saw a red caped figure bent over, hands covering his face, on the balcony of the healing rooms.