Author's Note: Hey guys! Since some of you thought the ending was a bit abrupt and asked for an epilogue, I thought I'd add this bit. I hope you all like it!

EPILOGUE

. . .

Even as Persephone laid herself to sleep the evening after she and Loki received her father's blessing, even as she spent the next day discussing with her betrothed what her queenly duties would encompass, and even as she awoke the morning of the ceremony to a bustle of maids and dressmakers, she cannot help but think there is a long way between her and the throne.

In all her life, she had never wanted for any title; she was a princess in blood only, and she had hardly received the same treatment as her more cosmopolitan siblings – no, she had led a simple life, and she had been content to do so. Power and status were nothing more than mere concepts for her, things that she understood but was too detached from to ever really consider in a proper capacity. Had anyone ever told her she would one day be queen, she would have laughed in his or her face.

And yet, here she stands.

In a frenzy of fear, she had spoken to Loki about it.

They sat together on the balcony, both with their hands folded neatly in their laps. Although they were close, their posture did not convey the intimacy of two lovers, but instead of two confidants discussing a battle strategy. The kingdom of Asgard stretched out before them on the horizon, but their backs were turned to it.

"Are you certain?" she hissed, eyes downcast and fixed on her hands. "Are you certain you would like to choose me as your queen?"

"I have thought about it at length," he retorted with ill-camouflaged irritation, as if it irked him that she thought he might not have given this matter its due consideration. "I would not have asked you to marry me if I were not certain."

She looked him in the face. "You were drunk when you asked."

"I was drunk when I asked, not when I made the decision to ask," he countered fluidly.

"You think I am up to the task?"

"Now, I think you're just fishing for compliments," he teased, unclasping his hands and bracing them against the railing on which they sat. Her scowl made it apparent that this was not a satisfactory reply, so he sighed and continued, "Thor once told me something along the lines of he recognized me better when I was under your influence…"

"You speak of me as if I were a drug."

"A medication, perhaps," he mused good-naturedly. His jollity transmuted into gravity as his eyebrows drew together. "Even I must admit that I am a sovereign prone to… let us call it excitation. I think perhaps it is best if my partner in ruling is a tempering force."

"And you think I am the best person to bear this burden?" she wondered ardently, shocked by his candor.

"You may not see it. Even I may not see it. But my brother seems to think it is true. I feel it is my responsibility, if there is even a scrap of veracity in this claim, to honor it. A king and queen with a marriage based in love and stability are undoubtedly in the best interest of this nation."

Loki allowed several beats of silence to pass before he next spoke.

"I cannot promise you that I will be an ideal husband, or even a very good one. I cannot promise you that I will never hurt you, and indeed I think it quite likely that I will, profoundly and perhaps frequently. I cannot promise you that I will never shout at you, that I will never say horrid, vile things. I pray that you know this, that you understand."

Persephone opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck in her throat. He took her inability to speak as a sign to go on, "I can promise you only that I do love you, truly and inalterably, and that no matter what I may say in the future this fact will remain unchanged."

"Loki," she managed, finding her voice, "I could not deny you, even if my reason told me to. I am tied to you no less than if I still wore those shackles you bound me with upon our first meeting – now, my bonds are internal and within my very own heart, but they are equally unbending."

She brought her hand to caress his face and he looked at her with unconcealed curiosity.

"There is no question of whether or not I agree to marry you," she continued. "I ask only if you are certain that I am the person you deem best for this monumental responsibility."

He smiled rather sadly and said, as if he were sentencing her to some punishment, "You are."

They are wed in the throne room, on a platform slightly above the whole of the kingdom. As she and Loki stand across from one another, elegant and rigid like marble statues, she cannot help but feel more object than animate.

Loki's eyes are sharp and clear, piercing her soul like needles as he observes her. His expression, as custom requires, is blank, but he cannot tame his illimitable eyes.

She is almost unable to meet them. She feels ridiculous and self-conscious. Her body is constricted by foreign, Asgardian garments and laden with accessories. The dress she wore is white and cumbersome, comprised of some sort of silken fabric atop a thicker cotton base. Its train stretches on and on for an impractical length, necessitating several attendants when she walks.

Even more jarring is the fact that her head feels immensely heavy under the weight of her ornate hairstyle. Her chestnut locks are drawn back into a loose plait, with flowers interwoven in each section. All this extravagance is contained within a sheer veil, as is the native convention. Beneath this veil, a golden diadem wraps around her forehead and stops just above the start of her braid; this, in metallic addition to her earrings and necklace, creates the illusion of a sort of armor.

Despite this discomfort, she looks, as everyone professes, beautiful.

Loki's gaze more or less confirms this. He seems not to notice the thousands of pairs of eyes upon them, though she is frightfully aware of them; he sees only her, while she sees everything else but him.

Their audience is not only Asgardian – it is Olympian, too, which makes the ceremony all the more illustrious. Zeus sits near to Thor, witnessing this spectacle as if he were supervising a business transaction.

She prays this sort of attention is something one can grow accustomed to – indeed, Loki seems as at ease as a man who has grown up as a prince might. She, however, cannot match his poise.

Her feet shift in place until there comes a time when the officiator asks that they join hands. Then, only then, is she able to tune out her grandiose surroundings – when their skin touches, she is able to truly study him.

Loki himself does not look so different as he usually does; he wore his kingly attire, complete with his horned helmet. His long hair is coifed neatly beneath it, reaching nearly to the tops of his broad shoulders, but curling up purposefully before it makes contact with gold collar of his coat. When his hair is unkempt, she realized some days before, it holds a natural wave. Now, not even a strand is out of place.

He tugs one corner of his taut lips into a fleeting smirk, sensing her apprehension. The motion is meant to be reassuring, but the brevity of it only makes him look just as uncertain as she does.

His slender fingers sweep over the backs of hers.

They will spend the next centuries together.

This event – this moment she is living – will be recorded in the history books, remembered by all just as Frigga and Odin's marriage was.

Because this is not merely a marriage: it is a coronation. It is a treaty between realms.

Her knees wobble as this sets in. She can hardly hear the words that the officiator speaks. She notices only that Loki suddenly nods in assent and utters something to the effect of 'I do,' before placing a simple golden band on her finger. She can practically feel the crowd's stare then redirect towards her; she follows his example, fumbling with the identical ring provided. When this deed is done, he gives her dainty hand a little squeeze.

And then the room erupts into a celebratory uproar. Out of nowhere, several guards sweep her and her now-husband into a pair of chairs and carry them, side by side, towards the head of the feasting table.

Everything is a blur. Her heart races and she feels faint in all commotion – it is lucky that she is seated, for it was very possible that she would have collapsed otherwise.

As they are ushered away, voice like velvet, he whispers in her ear, "It's done, my love."

Author's Note: I'm considering doing a separate 'wedding night' one-shot, but I'm not sure yet. Let me know if this sounds like something you'd like to read ;)