[ Loki beds down against him, a vole shivering in its dark empty den while the storm rages all around, and Thor's arms closing around him are the shelter, or so he would have it; he pulls up the furs and blankets to cover them both, and draws the lord of winter with tender strength against him, wrapping as much of his own frame around him as he possibly can. The king of summer is risen for him, swelled by the depths of longing which have welled up within him again and turned themselves into a simmering heart of desire like the heart of an ember, but there is more patience in him, perhaps, than there was when he was young. He is satisfied enough, cradling Loki near.

For he has missed this intimacy perhaps most of all. Cool white skin, soft raven hair tickling his lips, the dip and ridge of a narrow spine, too stark against the translucent skin and muscle of his back. Narrow, sharp, hard, thin plains: this is Loki's body, the landscape of all the years of emptiness and hunger and rage. Thor strokes him with great hands holding great strength, made tender by his own grief. Tears come, silent and hot, trickling down his cheeks into his beard, and he weeps them unashamedly, only holding Loki still closer so that his black hair dampens and Thor's lips are pressed to the top of his head. ]

No. They had no coldness to them, though Autumn was solemn, and wished for solitude, and Spring sand as sweetly as you do, so that the dogs and the deer used to lay at her feet to listen. [ His voice is hoarse. ] They were strong, eager children. There was nothing for them here.