Loki Odinson stood tall, the God of Lies in every sense of the word.
Dressed in his battle wear – a myriad of blacks, greens and golds, topped with his tall, horned helmet of meticulous design – and flanked by only a small mix of soldiers, he still managed to look completely calm standing in the rainbow light of the Bifrost. At ease, even – though you knew better.
Not many would have guessed that Loki Odinson – The Silver-Tongued Prince, The Serpent Lord, the God of Tricks and Troublemaking – could be quite so distraught over the peace discussions he would be heading over the next few weeks. After all, ‘how hard is it to charm people when charming is as natural to you as breathing?'
If that was the case, dear reader, Loki would have been both stumbling over his words and asphyxiating. A few months ago he would have been readily prepared to stroll into the gates of the Caledonian Empire and throw a few glossy words at the Emperor’s feet – but at that moment more than ever, the realisation that he was not only responsible for himself weighed heavy on his shoulders.
He had a wife. A wife who he desperately wanted a future with – with children who he could teach magic to, and maybe even his own estate on the outskirts of Asgard. Peace was detrimental to your happiness and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to achieve it.
He hadn’t attempted to push away your fussing hands as you needlessly tightened buckles and straightened his tunic, eyes alight with every species of concern in the Nine Realms. He knew you needed to worry about those measly details – clasps and shining gold and lightly scuffed leather – just as much as he needed you to worry for him. It took his mind off of the leadened stress that dragged his feet against the ground and nudged his brow into a frown.
When the time came and he had to step into the Bifrost, he very nearly decided to stay back – because Loki Odinson is many things, and a weak-hearted man is one of them (at least for you) – because as Heimdall announced that the Bifrost has been accordingly prepared, your eyes filled with tears and your hands trembled on his leather-bound shoulders.
He cupped your cheeks with his pale hands and pressed his forehead against yours, shutting his eyes as he allowed the most raw, intimate wave of seiðr to roll from his mind and into yours. He was reminded of your wedding night – the tiny calming spell that had worked wonders and allowed you to make it through the hours long feast. Only this time your anxiety was borne from his separation instead of the opposite.
He pressed his lips to yours, unspoken words and unmade promises drifting across your skin. He didn’t need to speak to make his intentions known – I will be safe. I will be smart. I will return to you –, and you felt your shoulders slump just the tiniest bit as he pulled away.
“I love you,” you mumbled into the empty space between you, restraining a fresh wave of tears as he carefully wiped away the remnants of the last. “I love you, Loki Odinson, and by the Norns, should you not come back to me–"
He gave a laugh, though his fondness was unmistakable. "I know, my flower. I know.”
Another kiss to the forehead. I love you too.
He had left you then, in the embrace of his mother – stepped into the blinding, ever-shifting light, chin raised and shoulders squared. Powerful, confident, headstrong and assured. Your husband, the Patron of Falsehoods, and you loved him all the more for it.
And then, he was gone. Him and his soldiers, and all they left in their wake was the faint taste of hope in the air. Frigga tightened her hold around your shoulders, face set in a saddened smile, and for the first time you saw just how old the Allmother truly was. This wasn’t the first time her son has leapt into danger – though it was the first time it had threatened to cost so much.
“Come, child,” Frigga said softly, turning you both around and beginning towards the palace. “Heavy hearts and heavy minds are not what Asgard needs at present.”
Frigga’s attendants and your own trailed behind you, a train of hushed voices and pity-filled whispers. That day, Frigga and you had tea in her solar – and when you took a sip of your tea and found it to be the very one you would drink back home, you cried. Too familiar, too sentimental, too… too…
“Loki told me it was your favourite,” Frigga said gently, placing a hand over yours. “I know it’s difficult, child. Odin was no stranger to conquests and war in his younger days. The most we can do from here is hope.”
And hope, you do.
You count the days till Loki’s return – eagerly retiring to bed early and waking late so that you’d spend less hours without him. You traipse the gardens – no longer looking for the flowers of home, but for the tall, green, leafy stalks of those Asgardian plants that Loki has a particular fondness for. You visit the library day in and day out, reading the books that Loki often has in his study – tomes of magic both ancient and new, with his familiar slanting, looping scroll dotting the margins.
When you sleep, you sleep on his side. The sheets are changed every day and have long lost his scent, though you still find some comfort in holding his pillows close. As if he’s there with you, and not worlds away, risking his life and–
Two weeks come and go.
At this point, you feel something is amiss. His trip is only meant to last two weeks, after all, and there has been no word sent from Loki Odinson or his troop of magicians – no word of their wellbeing, or their circumstances, or… or…
Thor seems to be equally as worried. As the days go by, the clear Asgardian skies become scarred with dark clouds – the first day, only slight puffs of white in cerulian blue; the 15th day, rain and thunder and lightning. You’re reminded that Thor had been the one to warn Loki against this trip – too risky, too erratic, too unpredictable. And while Thor’s own plan to simply declare war on the Caledonian’s is, if anything, equally as stupid, you still agree with his sentiment. There’s no bargaining with a race of blood-thirsty warriors, but that is what your husband was sent to do.
Frigga walks with you often, asking you how you’ve been faring with your husband’s departure and telling you stories of when he was younger (the one about the snake and the knife is your favourite) – though you notice the prayers she whispers to the skies and the spells she mutters under her breath, hoping for her son’s safe return. You can’t help but feel that Frigga’s desperation is a tell of how worrying the situation truly is.
×
On the 17th day, you wake up to an empty bed again. You sit up. Then you begin to cry.
Those are the first tears you shed for Loki, and, chest contracting painfully, you drag yourself to his study in a wishy-washy attempt to feel even slightly better. You haven’t been in it since he’d left – it feels wrong to be in there without him. But you’re desperately clawing onto any and all traces of him that you could find, so you slip out of bed and into the conjoined room, nightgown trailing against the floor.
By the Norns, it seems like ages have passed since his departure, but his study has been caught and fixed in the time he had left it in; books scattered over his carved table, quills and ink lying haphazardly over scrolls of parchment… He has plants dotted about the place, the magic kind, the kind he swears can cure any illness from sore throats to love sickness. You wonder if you take some yourself might you be cured of your own ailment.
You sit yourself at his wooden desk, running your fingers over the mountains and seas and strongholds carved into the mahogany. Your fingers tingle, as if reacting to the remnants of his magic left in the scarred wood, and you feel the most sickly sense of hope and love well up in your chest – a reaction that you could not quell or push back. You force yourself to sit still and let the waves wash over you, clutching the table beneath taut fingers and taking gasping breaths that do nothing to banish the tightness in your chest.
You begin to rearrange the parchment and tomes on the table in an effort to ground yourself – some yellowing and frayed, others a pure white and just barely curling at the edges. You line up the inks he had left behind, too, and the quills he so expertly used. It is only when you move a particularly large volume – The Growth of Inter-Realm Botanicals, a guide by Ragnar Erikson – that a tiny, folded piece of paper slips across the desk, very nearly falling to the ground before you snatch it up curiously.
It’s barely the size of half your palm, folded at least twice and marbled with smudged ink of midnight and cobalt. It doesn’t look too old – not as old as the rusty looking scroll beside you that seems as if it could turn to dust with one touch – but old enough to be at least a few months made. Curiosity nudging at your mind, you unfold the paper and turn it over.
It… it’s a drawing. A very messy, unprofessional, unfinished sketch, but a drawing nonetheless, and obviously of Loki’s doing. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the portrait’s likeness; the hair, the slope of the nose and curve of the lashes. It’s you. It’s you – Loki drew you.
A smudged line of ink above your head shows the date – and beside it, in messy script:
My love.
“Curse him to Hel and back,” you snap, suddenly shooting out of your seat as a geyser of anger rises in your chest. “I – I warned him! Bloody trickster god–"
But there are tears in your eyes and boulders settling in your stomach, and you fold the paper back over and hold it close to your heaving chest. Your bottom lip trembles, and when the first few tears begin to fall you don’t bother wiping them away. They hit the bejeweled cover of a spellbook and sit idly.
"I… I warned him…”
×
Another two weeks of tense, heavy silence passes. Thor seems to have had enough.
Lunch with Frigga in her solar is interrupted by the sound of flurried footsteps; a red-faced servant steps in just seconds later, huffing and puffing and wringing their hands nervously.
“My apologies for interrupting, Your Majesty, Your Grace, but–” They make a nervous sound– “The Allfather and Prince Thor are fighting.”
Frigga doesn’t look all too worried, sipping elegantly on a cup of lavender tea, though you perk up in your seat, eyes wide.
“Have they come to blows?” Frigga asks, setting her teacup down. The servant shakes their head, looking between you both, and it is with a tired sigh that Frigga stands, brushing her dress off. “Come, child. The men are making fools of themselves."
Your ladies in waiting trail behind Frigga and you as she leads you to the council room. In the middle, a long table stretches the length of the room, covered in parchment and inks and tiny figures that are meant to represent whole armies. The many-chaired table is empty – as is the whole room. From the askew chairs, you’d guess that the council members left in a hurry – and for good reason. Behind the table, the Allfather and his son are screaming at the top of their voices.
"–an army, and show the Caledonians that our people are not to be trifled with–!"
"You are a boy!” Odin seethes. “A foolish, incompetent, stubborn boy who wields a hammer he’s not worthy of!"
"Your son is at the mercy of a monstrous people,” Thor continued fearlessly, unphased by Odin’s sharp words, his chest heaving and eyes as stormy as the weather outside. “And you’d rather sit and ponder on trade tariffs?"
He turns, then, stretches his arms out wide and allows a humorless smile to grace his face. "Let the Norns bear witness to the cowardly nature of Odin Allfather!"
It is quiet for a few seconds. Even Frigga seems to still for a moment as Thor’s words are fully comprehended by the Allfather. The air grows heavier and heavier, anger and power materialising in the air – almost tangible, and you wince. You don’t want to be in the same room as Odin when he explodes from anger.
"Boy,” the Allfather begins quietly. “Don’t make me–”
Frigga inhales sharply from beside you suddenly. Odin barely gets another word out before she’s at her wits end, eyes narrowed and chin lifted defiantly.
“My son is worlds away,” she begins, her voice carrying across the room even in its low volume. Despite it, her husband and son quieten, and it is then that you see the power that Frigga Allmother holds.
It’s not in any weapon or item – not even in her seiðr. It flows deeper than blood and higher than breath, engraved in her bones and carved on her lungs. She commands rooms and people alike with simple words – carries her gentleness as an asset and not a burden, but doesn’t shy from firmness. A queen, wholly and truly – and a queen who has had enough.
“My son is worlds away,” she repeats, deathly calm. “The stars know how deeply a mother’s grief cuts, and I have attempted dearly to remedy it. All the while, my husband and son quarrel and bicker like children.”
“Frigga–"
"We have all felt the shadow of Loki’s disappearance,” Frigga snaps. “He is a love to all of us. I am his mother, his lady wife stands beside me – and yet we both are calm-headed. I suggest you follow our example.”
Thor’s lips twitch downwards, but he manages a reluctant nod. “…Of course, mother.”
Odin’s lip curls disfavorably, but even he settles back into his seat at the top of the table. His fingers tap against the wood, jaw set in irritation.
“Little can be done at this moment,” he murmurs. “We don’t know if negotiations are simply taking longer than expected, or if Loki has been imprisoned, or…”
The silence that follows is sweltering with the implication of his words. Thor casts a sorrowful look your way.
“If he has been imprisoned, any declarations of war could put his life at stake,” the Allfather continues. “I have written to the Caledonian Chieftain requesting Loki’s presence in Asgard. We must wait until my summons have been answered.”
“And if it isn’t?” You ask. You’re scared of the answer. No-one mentions the tremble in your voice.
Odin sighs, eyes shutting. Thor’s jaw clenches. Frigga looks as if she’s about to cry.
Odin doesn’t say anything when you storm away without his permission, tears staining your cheeks.
×
It all happens so fast – there’s truly no way to explain how you feel when the Bifrost shudders and trembles, shooting from the heavens so brightly that you can see it from the palace. You sit up sharply, slamming the book in your hands closed as you hurry to your balcony. Just as soon as the Bifrost had come, it was gone. Your heart was in your throat.
“What was that?” You demand, striding to your door. Your handmaidens look just as befuddled as you feel, and the guards posted outside can only shrug. “Stars above, will someone find out–?!”
“_____!”
It’s Frigga, dress gathered in her hands as she slows to hasty walk. She wastes no time in grabbing your hand and pulling you along through winding hallways, clearly leading you out of the palace. “Come, child, we must go–”
“Where–?”
“The Bifrost,” she says hurriedly, “Did you see it?”
“Yes, I–”
“There is only one explanation.”
Your eyes widen, and from then on you run in front of her. You keep your pace until the glittering rainbow bridge is beneath your feet, and even still you continue running. You see them, then, and your heart stutters and throbs – they stand at the end of the bridge, all in varying states of wariness but none dead, thank the Norns. Your legs feel as if they could buckle and leave you collapsed on the rainbow bridge, but you refuse to fall until you can hold your husband in your arms again.
He sees you, too – eyes widening (that bloody beautiful shade of green), he drops the scroll of paper that he had been holding and readily catches you as you fall into him, his breathing heavy and his touch bordering on desperation.
“My – my love–” And you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your face and into the leather of his armour, arms looped underneath his and grasping at any inch of him you can reach. His arms are tight and steady, grip unwavering – and he nudges at your neck, a hand in your hair and the other splayed against your back. You feel wetness against your skin, sense the wave of panicked, disbelieving magic that he emits with every second.
“I – I –” He’s speechless– “I didn’t know if I’d make it back to you–”
You can’t bear to hear anymore at present. You grasp his cheeks and pull his lips to yours, pouring every ounce of sadness of hopefulness and heartbreak that you’ve felt over the passed moons into it, hoping that he’d be able to feel it – to understand it in ways that words wouldn’t allow for. He responds in kind; makes you feel the longing and fear and responsibility he’d felt for the same time, and if your heart hadn’t been broken before, it surely is now.
“Loki!” It’s Frigga this time, and he breaks away from you with the look of a boy looking for his mother, all wide, teary eyes and upturned brows. You’ve never quite seen him like this before, and you’re hesitant to find out what exactly had happened to make him this way lest your own heart breaks. “Oh, my son…”
The sky rumbles with thunder, and Loki lifts his head from Frigga’s shoulder with a small smile to look at the clouds. “I see some things haven’t changed.”
×
He’s swept away from you before he’s even yours to begin with, into that room that he’s spent too much time in already with hastily gathered councilmen and army commanders. You’re fuming – not even a visit to a healer before he’s taken and forced to relay the story; barely half an hour allowed with his wife and mother and brother before he’s pushed into work with the men that allowed this to happen in the first place.
Frigga had grabbed your hands in hers and peered into your eyes. “It’s best that you retire to your chambers,” she had said, rubbing her thumb over your hand comfortingly. “I’ve too much experience with meetings like these. I fear it will run well into the night – and he has enough to worry about. Take care of yourself.”
You had wanted to yell and fight and storm in and steal away your husband but it was the last thing anyone needed, especially Loki. With much effort, you returned to your chambers. Your handmaidens, who had been left in confusion and worry when you and Frigga had run to the Bifrost, are all understandably confuddled and on edge as you return. You’re thankful for it, though, and allow yourself to be bathed and dressed, hair brushed and braided and those expensive oils massaged into your skin.
You feel like you’re dreaming – like you’re not truly here. For weeks you had wished for Loki’s return, imagined it second by second, planned what you would say when he finally was back on Asgardian soil. You had even attempted to prepare for the worst, so, needless to say, a large weight had been lifted off your shoulders – though it didn’t stop you from sitting on the edge of your bed, hands shaking and fingers incessantly tapping at any surface they could reach.
Impatience is a self-inflicted plague, Loki had once said. It was so easy for him to say, of course, because he wasn’t awaiting the presence of his beloved after a journey that was more traumatic than diplomatic. Nevertheless, you do make an attempt to pass the time; undoing and redoing your hair, finishing off the various books you had taken up lately, watering each and every plant in Loki’s study. You try to lose yourself in your tasks, but you’re just as quick to jump up and rush out to meet him when the door to the bedroom opens with a silent click.
For a second he just stares at you – and you find yourself unable to move, of course, because some miniscule part of you is still frightened that this is all an elaborate mirage, a stupid dream, that you’ll wake up on his empty side of the bed again.
“Come here,” he breathes, and he strides across the room and takes you up in his arms in the way he wasn’t able to when he was surrounded by his soldiers and magicians – in the way a man embraces his wife, no boundaries or inhibitions or rules. And it feels like you can finally relax again; you can feel it deep in your bones, the sweetness of relief that seeps into your skin as he rocks you back and forth, draws his fingers over the nape of your neck and down your back.
You’re just as desperate for contact as he is, and he’s willing to entertain you; fingers tangled in his ebony hair and lips pressed against any bare surface they can find. He doesn’t mention the shuddering breaths you take or how you whisper thanks to the stars against his armour, because he’s muttering those same prayers in his head.
You stay like that for a long time, wound in each other’s arms. Not talking, just holding each other. It’s what you need, you think, to simply know he’s real and tangible, to feel the solidness of him pressed against you. You could’ve stayed that way for hours more, maybe, but…
“A bath,” he murmurs, pulling away slightly. “I need a bath. Being held captive for weeks on end doesn’t yield particularly impressive bathing opportunities, as I’m sure you’d understand.”
The layer of humour covering his words is stark and much too easily recognizable for the God of Mischief, but you know it’s his way of coping. All you can do for now is support him where you can and comfort him until he finds it within himself to pick up where he left off.
“Join me,” he whispers against your lips.
“Of course,” you say back. “Of course.”
(You don’t want to let him out of your sight. Paranoia, paranoia.)
The maids draw a bath in silence, fill it with wound balls of herbs and drops of fragrant oils. You slip in first, chin resting on the marble sides of the bath and watching as he removes the layers of his armour. That horned helmet of his is placed atop a nearby podium, and the stress seems to roll off his shoulders.
For a second you can only stare at him – the pale canvas of his skin, the hard muscles that rolled beneath, the straight slope of his shoulders and the long, graceful neck that led to that handsome face. There truly was only one word that could describe him: ethereal.
“What are you staring at, wife?” His voice takes on its familiar teasing lilt, and you feel some worry dissipate into the air. He’s coming back to his old self, at least.
“My handsome husband, of course,” you say, smiling as he nears. “Carved from pale marble and embellished with emeralds for eyes.”
He huffs a short laugh, slipping down behind you elegantly. “It seems my short absence has affected your ability to gauge beauty.”
“…It didn’t feel very short.”
“…I know.”
“What – what happened, Loki?”
You feel him shrug from behind you. His wet fingers begin to trail up and down your arm. “It was as was predicted. They are barbarians. Savages. They imprisoned us. Beat us with no aggravation – our presence seemed enough. They had us in there for weeks.”
The hand on your arms stills.
“…For the first time in a long time I was worried about more than myself. The men I had brought along who were under my orders; the common folk whose lives were on the line because of this peace treaty. You.”
You stay silent as his hand starts up again.
“I spent as much time as I could thinking about you, you know. You asked me to come back to you, and I promised I would. I…I wouldn’t have been able to see that through if I died. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, my flower, leaving you here alone–"
Your heart lurches, throat tightening with the threat of tears, and in a second you’ve sat up and twisted around, legs now positioned at his hips and hands cupping his face.
"Everyday,” you say, bottom lip trembling, “I woke to an empty bed. And… and every second I was thinking of you. Where you were and what happened and how it would be when you came back – and now that you’re here, I…”
You can’t stop the small sob that leaves your lips – and, like a dam that’s been opened, the rest follow. You bury your face against his damp skin, body shaking and hands grasping – and Loki, bless him, simply takes what you’re giving and holds you as tight as he can, arms wound around you like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate into the air.
You’re glad the bathwater is enchanted – doesn’t grow cold, you see, and it allows you to sit and wallow for a good amount of time. When your heart has gotten its bearings again, Loki speaks once more.
“The Chieftain’s daughter came down to the dungeons one day,” he recalls. “Barely older than you, I think. Young and unmarried and innocent. She’d come and talk to me when the going got rough – didn’t agree with her father’s methodology, evidently.
"I told her all about you. About your hair and the dresses you wear and the plants you like and how you are the light of my heart… How we married before the whole of Asgard and how I hope for children with your eyes and your smile. When Odin summoned me her father was unsure of what to do – I think in the end she was the one who convinced her father to end the madness, to set us free.”
“I… must thank her,” you say after a moment. You tap thoughtfully against his skin. “…Do you mean it?”
“Mean what, my flower?"
"About the children,” you answer quietly.
“How often do I have to say I love you before you believe me?” He says fondly, brushing a wet strand of hair from your forehead. “Being stuck in that cell at the mercy of a tyrant made me realise that life is often unpredictable. Short, too. I don’t want to waste my time with you.”
“You won’t,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “You never did.”
His voice is regretful when he speaks next. “I can’t promise you that I won’t have to leave again, my love. It is my duty as a son of Asgard–”
“I know, Loki,” you say. It pains you to say it, but it is a reality you have to face; he is, first and foremost, a prince of Asgard. He loves his people and he would do anything to keep them safe. To keep you safe. “I would never ask that of you. Just… just know that wherever you go, you take a piece of me with you.”
“And you know I leave a piece of me with you.”
“I do,” you say, leaning forward to brush your lips against his. “Though, maybe, a more… literal piece of you could be left behind. For next time, I mean.”
He chuckles. “Now, you scoundrel of a woman?” But he captures your lips anyway, humming lowly as your tongue slips passed his own. It’s like quenching your thirst after experiencing drought, or coming home after a journey that was far too long. You melt against him, chest to chest, heart to heart.
“Now,” you murmur against him. “Please.”
“I’m not a cruel man, wife,” he says, hand slipping from the middle of your back and into the water. Waves resonate from where his hand has dipped between your legs, and you dig your nails into his shoulder as his slender fingers begin to stroke circles against you. “I won’t make you suffer.”
Gasps join the litany of moans that escape you, body thrumming with pleasure and those ever-present jolts of seiðr that you’re sure your husband doesn’t even realise he’s giving off.
“Normally I would take my time,” he says. His breathing is heavy with exertion – he very clearly is holding himself back, evident in how his touch hardens as his other hand brushes over your breasts. “But I fear my impatience is getting the better of me.”
“I don’t care,” you whimper, squeezing around – regretfully – nothing. “Please, Loki, I need you inside me.”
You shiver with anticipation as his hands leave you. Beneath the water you can see him hold himself, pumping his cock back and forth. You have to stop yourself from salivating.
When he presses himself against you, you yield easily. It’s been far too long since you’ve had him inside you, and your body seems to recognise that – he slips inside you easily, and you’re breathless all of a sudden, thighs suddenly trembling with the effort of keeping you suspended above him.
“Down, my love,” Loki murmurs, settling a hand at your waist. “You can take me.”
You know you can, you’ve done it many times before. Still, there’s that ache that toes the line between pain and pleasure as your walls stretch to accommodate him, and you sigh as your hips are finally pressed flush against his.
You’ll admit that your patience has completely flown out of the window – you’re shameless. The feeling of Loki inside you, his fingers tugging at your nipples and rubbing against your clit – you’re shameless in your need for it. You begin to move your hips back and forth, and he rewards you with the sweetest, saccharine groan, his head falling back gently – it’s only when you increase your speed that he looks up at you again, his eyes impossibly dark.
“I can imagine you now,” he pants, “Full with my child. Your stomach swelling with my heir. By the Norns, you’ll look beautiful. You’ll glow–” He moans low in his throat, tugging you forward to kiss you sloppily– “I love you. Gods – I love you–"
And it’s all too much – the feel of him inside you and the water around you, the scent of him and those perfumed oils mingling in the air, his hands grasping your back and his lips locked against the base of your throat. In a final gasp, your orgasm spreads from your core to the tip of your toes to the top of your head – and, tugging his locks between your fingers, you call out his name–
"Loki–!”
And he’s there too, grunting against your skin as his hips buck into you, arms tightening around you in the throes of pleasure. That familiar warmth of his seed inside you has you sighing, collapsing against his chest tiredly. When he shifts, you whine.
“Don’t move,” you mumble, nuzzling against his skin. “Stay inside me.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he replies quietly. “…If it’s a girl, we must name her Frigga."
His chest is still heaving. His fingers trail up and down your back affectionately, leaving trails of magic in their wake. You’ve never felt more at ease.
"I agree,” you murmur. “And if it’s a boy… Do you think naming him after Thor is bad luck?”
He laughs, then, lips stretching into a grin and body shaking. “My love,” he says, “We may as well set him up for days of drinking and brawling.”
“I think he’ll be just as smart and sly as his father.” You grin, closing your eyes. “Maybe he’ll have magic just as you do.”
And you don’t see him, but in that moment Loki’s eyes soften. Your breathing slows and your eyes remain closed, heart thumping rhythmically against his chest.
“I hope his heart is as big as his mother’s,” he mutters to the air.
That was enough for him.