The thing about self-imposed drabble writing is every now and then one of the drabbles gets out of control and next thing I know I'm staring at a fully formed story. Not that I'm complaining, but it's a thing that does happen. This is a story in two parts-the first chapter pre-movies, and the second chapter post-movies. Provided I get to it, we may see more of this Sigyn and her being lovely. I'm very fond of her, but I've got other projects to wrap up before that. Fanfan stop getting me on Sigyn kicks, kthnx. Warnings: blood, animal death, rituals, sex (graphic and non), implied/mentioned child death

You like to dance, when you think no one is watching. Bend and sway, a low hum that fills your chest, a sweet thing. Mostly sweet, at least when there's a chance your husband or a servant might walk in.

(You've told him, again and again, that there's no need for servants, but on this point he will not change. Just because you feel a need to do everything, he tells you, does not mean that you should. You allow he may be right, and that a prince's household is far larger than the one you grew up in.)

You know your husband is interested in your dancing, enjoys it the way he enjoys burying his hands in your curls and running his nose along the top of your ear, bent over and around you. Sometimes, when he is quiet enough, he manages to dance a few steps with you, arms around your middle; when he does, you allow it to continue.

I love you, he murmurs in your ear, and you smile.

There is another sort of dancing though, and you do not speak of it, do not do it where there is a risk of someone finding you. It is none of their concern, and it is a thing of Vanaheim you have no reason to bring here. Not yet.

Not until there the dwarves need help and come to Asgard for it. Not until your husband-prince-lover is meant to ride off to a fight not his to help a people not his.

(Your uncle, you know, is already sending a group of men. You know how they will appear, and what their women will do.)

What Asgard calls seidr is the domain of men. Asgard does not think so, but Asgard is wrong. Seidr is fire and air, and it is men's magic. It is what brings them home, when they are away at sea, what they use to burn things when there are fights.

Come, you tell him, when he returns to your chambers, and you take him by the hand. You do not get horses, but you do get a goat, and you lead them far from the palace and its light and its warmth, until there are plains and soft grasses beneath your feet. You pause, remove your sandles, and then continue. He is curious, as he always is, but he does not ask.

Not yet.

When you strip and draw the knife ever present at your waist, his eyebrows raise.

That is what you use it for then? he asks, as he has always asked, and you smile darkly.

Sometimes, you tell him, then slit the throat of the goat and hold it, petting its head in your lap as the light goes out of its eyes, staining your front red in blood. Be still, and sit, and watch. You are careful to gather some of the blood up, mixing it with the skin of wine you brought—rich and heady wine, the strongest Vanaheim makes, sent to you by your aunt when she heard that Asgard would send its princes to aid Svartleheim.

Drink, you tell him, handing him the wineskin.

His eyebrows raise, but he sips at it, skin flushing at the potency.

How much? he asks as you begin loosen your hair from its ties.

All of it, you say. Nude but for the knife in your hand, you reach for the wineskin, and drink deeply.

(At home, in Vanaheim, you know this is a scene happening repeatedly, wives and lovers who wish to ensure their men return from war and battle. Asgard's rites, though, are different. They are not binding, but Asgard knows nothing of magic. After all, they make women use men's magic and the men use no magic at all.)

He watches with interest as you lay the goat open, sorting through its insides. Each, you know, has a use, but for this you need the heart; in your hand, it is not so large. You cut a sliver of it, chew it thoughtfully, and then offer him a sliver to do the same.

The two of you pass the wineskin between you, until your skin is flush and the world goes soft at the edges. Sometimes, you daub cooling blood across his features. Sometimes, he tries to speak, but you put a finger to his lips until he finally does not try anymore, his eyes unfocused. He may drink long and often, but this is proper ritual wine and Asgard has nothing so potent as it. Even the dwarves are careful in its drinking.

He watches as you stand.

You dance. You begin slowly, stamping bare feet on the ground, setting a low pulse to match the turn of the realm, finding your way because you do not know Asgard's beat so well as Vanaheim's and the chain you make needs be binding.

(Women's magic—earth and sea, dark and calm and hearth.)

Even with only you to create sound and weave bonds, it is intoxicating.

Magic, he murmurs against your lips when you straddle his lap, face flush and words slurred. Your hands dip into the wine and you paint across his brow and nose before you kiss his lips, roughly, biting until he hisses as your teeth draw blood. You lick it from him, savoring the taste of him in your mouth, and listen to the earth groan as Asgard grips tight to its prince.

Finish drinking, you tell him, and he drinks while your fingers undo the ties and laces of his clothing to expose flesh, a hand at your hip possessively. He is already hard as you wrap your hand around his cock, and you smirk a little into the line of his neck as he tries not to choke on the last of the wine.

Tha érthei sto spíti mou, you whisper in his ear as you sink onto his length. Tha érthei sto spíti and you dig your nails into his shoulders, drawing more blood. He whines, dropping the wineskin, burying his head at your throat, one hand twisting possessively in your hair, other pulling you down, hips rocking up into yours. Orycheío you gasp, closing your eyes and head leaning back as his teeth dig into your skin, feeling the tug on your scalp.

Mine, he hisses into your skin, dark and possessive, and you whisper, yours.

It undoes what little coherence he has, his hands roaming your flesh, pushing you onto your back into the blood-wet grass, hooking your legs onto his arms so he can rut harder, deeper, desperate, and your encouragement is only a little for him, dizzy and heady from the energy still coiling inside you and the chains you yet bind him with.

Do not, you tell him in the morning before he rides out, wash your face.

He does not say anything, but then he nods. He is clever, your husband-prince-lover, and he can grasp well enough that not all magic is as Asgard says.

I love you, he says, and I will return soon.

A smile curls your lips, and you allow a hand to brush along his jaw before you kiss him.

Yes, you agree, you will.