[ The blade pricks, it burns with cold, but it does not pierce, though Thor waits with patient, liquid eyes and his body opened for the thrust of death. It does not come; it withdraws instead, and Loki stands stark with rage and perhaps longing, too, so that the king of summer aches for him and wishes for their youth, for the days when he could have drawn Loki down into his arms, laid him between sweet-smelling sheets and furs and comforted him with his warmth, with the press of their naked skin. Instead he reaches and takes Loki's hand, drawing him back into the realm of summer.
Once he had thought they could both belong here, that they could both live forever. ]
This way. There is something you have not seen before.
[ It is as it was when they were young, Thor leading Loki by the hand, but this time the lord of winter trembles not in wonder but in fury, and Thor treads gentle but heavy-hearted upon the earth. He does not take him across the long stretch of green and gold field, but leads into the dark forest, by a winding path shrinking narrower and narrower between the broad old trunks of kingly trees, their crowns of thick leaves thrust proudly into the sky. The king of summer has walked this path many times before, and the life which springs beneath his feet is all of twisted vine and dark weed, grasping wild growth.
At last a glen in the wood, and a small hut with thatched roof, wildflowers at the door. Smoke curls gray from the peak of the roof; within, the floor is packed earth strewn with herbs, and more hang in drying bunches from the eaves, and a pot over the brazier fills the space with an earthy scent and the smell of rabbit roasted and stewed. There is a garden to one side of the hut, small and laboriously toiled. The bed in the corner is nearly too small for his frame. ]
My home. [ says Thor, when he has brought Loki within. ] When I am not needed at the palace. It is too sweet there: the dryads sing for me, but I ache for want of your voice. They put feasts before me, but it sits overrich upon my tongue, and there is no one with which to share it. The children did not live long with me; they hungered for the world beyond summer, and I had not the heart to forbid them to fly where their wings would take them. And so this has become my refuge. I have found peace here, but no joy, since our parting.
no subject
Once he had thought they could both belong here, that they could both live forever. ]
This way. There is something you have not seen before.
[ It is as it was when they were young, Thor leading Loki by the hand, but this time the lord of winter trembles not in wonder but in fury, and Thor treads gentle but heavy-hearted upon the earth. He does not take him across the long stretch of green and gold field, but leads into the dark forest, by a winding path shrinking narrower and narrower between the broad old trunks of kingly trees, their crowns of thick leaves thrust proudly into the sky. The king of summer has walked this path many times before, and the life which springs beneath his feet is all of twisted vine and dark weed, grasping wild growth.
At last a glen in the wood, and a small hut with thatched roof, wildflowers at the door. Smoke curls gray from the peak of the roof; within, the floor is packed earth strewn with herbs, and more hang in drying bunches from the eaves, and a pot over the brazier fills the space with an earthy scent and the smell of rabbit roasted and stewed. There is a garden to one side of the hut, small and laboriously toiled. The bed in the corner is nearly too small for his frame. ]
My home. [ says Thor, when he has brought Loki within. ] When I am not needed at the palace. It is too sweet there: the dryads sing for me, but I ache for want of your voice. They put feasts before me, but it sits overrich upon my tongue, and there is no one with which to share it. The children did not live long with me; they hungered for the world beyond summer, and I had not the heart to forbid them to fly where their wings would take them. And so this has become my refuge. I have found peace here, but no joy, since our parting.