The human male’s coworker and his sweetheart are being married today. Sigyn, you remember them. He is the one who makes that delicious dish with the shellfish, and she is the one who has paid tribute to my signature look with her hairstyle.
For reasons passing my understanding, I have not been invited to the church for the actual wedding. Sigyn has, though. The human female said that the bride and groom are worried that my glorious presence would upstage their ceremony, but she was making That Face when she said it, the one that means she might be serious or she might be having a snark at my expense. (Laugh all you want mortal. I know where you sleep.)
I was not disinvited from the reception, so here I am, ready for a good meal and a slice of the traditional cake. (Apparently they have decided that I cannot sully cake.)
The hall, Sigyn insists, has been decorated very prettily, but I have no eye for flowers or ribbons or other such folderols. No, my attention has been caught by the photography booth in the corner. Some of the props with which attendees may pose are more than a little disturbing.
I have no fond memories of my various encounters with the bearer of this disk…
Captain Spanglepants may occasionally assist me in keeping Sigyn safe, but he is overly friendly with Sigyn and his priggishness is bound to ruin my appetite and sour the champagne. This reminds me… I never did finish working through my to-do list…
Thor’s Bitty Ballpeen! Don’t tell me my brother is going to show up too!
That’s all I need. I had better hurry back to Sigyn to make sure none of the Avengers are pestering her with either attentions or boastful war stories.
Behold: Is not my beloved beautiful by candlelight?
Let us sit here together, my petal, and pretend that all of the celebration is just for us.
The master of ceremonies is announcing dinner. No one has to call me twice. Sigyn is starting with the salad.
I, however, have moved ahead to the roast beast and delicious fowl portion of the repast. If I am to rule this realm, I shall need all my strength.
What would a feast be without music and dancing and laughter and the shrill pipings of younglings as they run about among the tables? Quieter, I assure you! But perhaps less festive. I believe it must be the same in all the realms, for truly, I remember Volstagg’s brood yelling and darting about under the feet of the servers at many a feast back on Asgard. (I myself, as a young prince, was never allowed to run about, shrieking, at feasts, though I wish I had a gold piece for every time I slid under the table to play with the knives or read my spell books. Thus, I have no prizes for deportment, either.)
And now, while all the revelers cluster about the happy couple to wish them well, I can get on with the serious business of sampling the cake.
Mmmm. Almond. And jam. And buttercream. Sigyn approves, and so do I! Would that some of the humans’ friends might wed every week, that we might feast in this manner always!