Forgive Me
Being stared at intently by one not-so-horribly-huge jötun is not much of an improvement compared to several of variously huge heights, to Loki. It is because now all the involved parties are sequestered in what Nalla calls a “nest” – a large, apparently multifunction room, with a circular dais with a depression occupying most of it, filled with all sorts of pillows and blankets and furs and cushions and boulsters – instead of a more escapable hallway, and Nalla – who is still holding Loki – is tensing up in response to the regard that is not even directed towards him.
Still, Nalla introduces the jötun: “Loé, this is your second elder kin-sibling, Býleistr.”
And, dutifully, automatically, cautiously, Loki mutters, “Well met, Býleistr.”
The response, however, instead of an equally rote greeting, or something warmer, or something harsher, is a timmid, fumbling, “I… I am so so sorry, Loé. I…. You were separated from Abý because of me. I meant to keep you safe somewhere else, but… but… you were gone when I returned,” complete with a cringe held overlong and averted eyes.
Loki’s heart twinges.
Such expression feels so… wrong, on such a big, strong-looking being.
But it explains why Nalla is tense.