[ And why, indeed, should the king of winter wet his face with the sorrow of mortal men? Why shall his withered heart grow old and tender with grief fueled by thought of others outside of the meager reach of cold limb and body? He looked once into an eternity of solitude, and felt the reality cleave his mind from his body; has he not suffered injustice enough for a thousand thousand mortals, and all of their future blood and issue?

Yet still a shard of truth-glass aches in his soft underbelly, a shard of innocence and of fortitude, a shard of a child once sweet and chaste, and Loki cannot forget entire what it meant to care for more than Thor-king and Loki-king. He was born to rule, and ruling is no selfish endeavor.

Loki draws up Thor's great hand, and presses it to the bared knotted scar of the runes once carved into his chest. There is magic in this, too, for the touch sends a spiraling warmth into Loki's very bones. ] What, then, is happiness? [ asks the king of the frost, and he smiles through the tears that freeze upon his downturned face. His hair tumbling into his face, he kisses the narrowing of Thor's wrist, down the twist of his vein, into the bend of his elbow, greedy for the warmth of skin. ] Teach me, beloved. [ he murmurs, cradling Thor's arm to his chest. ] I feel it in the touch of your hands upon me, but still its meaning flees from my grasping mind. I am again your willing and eager pupil, as I was so many years ago.