[ A hundred times does Loki's mind stray from the path at hand, thinking of the edge of his blade, and a hundred times again he slakes his desire for vengeance with a sweeter boon — the weight of Thor's hand in his own, and the warmth of the sun upon skin pulled taut over ragged bone. In his own land, the ice would have reached to meet him, crowning him with shards that glittered like diamond and glass; here, even the vines growing gnarled and wild draw away from his frost-lined footsteps.

It had not been so, when he had first ventured here. The sun and the sky and the fields of gold had welcomed him as joyfully as their king.

Loki draws closer, stepping only in the great shadow fallen behind Thor, hiding his face in shame. Winter had once known a brightness equal to its cruelty; it had once known color and light as compelling as that of the summerlands. No longer is that true.

And his shame only heightens when Thor leads him into the secret glen hidden beyond the tangle of the woods. There is no magic that crowns the trees with gold, no ancient will that beautifies the thatched roof and the hanging herbs, and yet in the midst of this simplicity Loki finds his breath catching in his throat. He stills in the doorway, the earth warm under his bare feet, and he pulls his hand away when the attempt is made to draw him within. ]

You should not have brought me here. [ says Loki. The rage was a shackle, moments ago, and now the cold iron bite of it has been replaced by heavier resignation. His hands are curled over the shaft of wood rising to form the doorway, and his fingertips idly stroking the smooth grain, again, again, feverishly.

(If only—)

Already the wildflowers at his feet begin to blacken. ]

You have seen what I have become. You saw it, when you left my lands heavy with the life we wrought. You ache for a creature lost.