[ The mortals will suffer. The children born of the braided fiber of divinity: they, too, will suffer. If summer was unselfish in its generosity, it would drive out the incumbent winter before its breath could sweep the life from the valleys of plenty, from the mortal villages filled with cheer. If Thor could forget his own heart, none in all the world would again know the pain of a starving belly again. ]

You have become more selfish than ever you taught me to be. [ And yet even as he speaks the shadows in his eyes begin to fragment. He does not fight against the hold; no, he surrenders himself to it, his dark head falling back to rest against the wooden slats of the wall.

The future spirals into shadows in the distance, and even Loki's gift of prophecy is not enough to illuminate the path set ahead. A choice, then, a fork in the road — but Loki knew which turn he would choose before even Thor looked upon him with love in his eyes. He knew, when he woke to a bedchamber bereft of all but ice and shadow. What is Loki without Thor?

He takes a shallow breath, enough to whet his lungs with the warm sunlit musk of summer's king. His arms tighten about Thor's shoulders, drawing him closer still. His voice is nigh inaudible, so softly does he speak. ] Then come nearer to me, my king. I have been so very cold.