Loki put Hel to bed soon after his brother had left. She slept soundly, sweetly, but her father sat up in his room for most of the night with slumped shoulders, wondering what the future held for them. The occasional flashes of lightning from his window illuminated his face in a fierce and sharp white, momentarily deepening the shadows around his eyes and nose to make him appear almost skeletal. The trickster hardly noticed it.

The picture of his children was on his nightstand. He had moved it from his study when he waved Thor off, and now he could not take his eyes from it. It reminded him of a simpler time; a happier time. It reminded him of when he could enter the living room and be greeted with the sight of Jorgmundr coiled around Hel's cradle, where she would be sleeping soundly. It reminded him of when he would walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night and stumble across Fenrir sleeping outside her nursery door, ears pricked up for the sound of intruders. It reminded him of all the conspiratorial smiles shared when one of them had broken something.

His sons had told him once that she was not just his daughter, but their sister, and it was their duty as brothers to protect and love her. They excelled in it, defending her from all manner of bullies and dangers in the forest; and she had loved them for it. If not for the seeress' prediction, if not for her telling all of Asgard his sons would bring about the apocalypse, the pair would have made fearsome guards for the child. Loki would never have to fret about leaving her in the house with their servants. When Angrboða went on her hunts, he would not have to fear that it would be weeks before she returned; Fenrir often went out to find her, or she would come back on her own accord to see him. The boys were her children while Hel was his. The picture, however, held true to how much he loved them all.

He laid down to stare at it, his lips slightly parted and his breathing barely audible. Muspelheim – the Fire Giants – would see all the Realms destroyed with their war. Their king Surtur was all but immortal, and it seemed every century he had a new reason why he, the gatekeeper of that fiery realm, should have claim to all the thrones that surrounded him. There was always a new debate, a new battle. He had set his sights finally on Asgard, and the Asgardians had responded to his threats in kind.

He heard a creak behind him. Loki's face hardened as he turned to face it, peering through the darkness of his room at the vague shape of his door.

"Is the tavern closed?" he hissed. The door continued to creak open until, finally, a little face appeared from behind it, and the trickster's attitude softened. "Hel."

The child stepped inside the room and hurried up to her father. He sat up and enveloped her in a hug, smiling into her hair as she laid her head on his chest.

"Why are you awake? It's late. You should be sleeping."

Hel could not answer him. Instead, she stared at the large oak bed with the floral headboard carvings; the regal emerald sheets that matched the wallpaper; and the huge windows with their curtains open, the gold tiebacks holding them in place. A flash of lightning lit up the room. She stared unblinking.

"It's only a storm, my girl. Do you remember the story? Uncle Thor's hammer is making that thunder. He's using Mjolnir to vanquish our enemies. Isn't it beautiful? It's not fearsome, is it?"

The child did not respond for a moment. Then, after a long pause, she nodded. Loki's brow furrowed.

"Is it?"

She nodded again. Hel's eyes bored into him until he felt she was staring into his soul, but he smiled and stroked her hair, soothing her with soft words and promises.

"The lightning will stop. The thunder will pass. The rain will end. The night only lasts so long, Helly." He kissed her temple. "It's never permanent."

There was silence for a long while, broken occasionally by the storm. Loki rested his head against the headboard and stared out at the window. Then, almost without realising it, he started to hum a lullaby.

In some distant part of her mind, Hel knew her father had been called away. She even partly understood that he could have disappeared out of her life forever. She could not sleep for fear that he would vanish in the night. But her fears and concerns were soothed by Loki's lullaby, and resting her head against his chest she let his heartbeat calm her.

"I love you, my girl." Loki said. He expected no reply, content with his daughter's weight in his arms and the smell of her hair, the rhythmic sound of her breath as it evened out to sleep. He had learnt to love her silence.

"I love you too, Daddy."

Her voice startled him. It reminded him of a field lit by silver moonlight; beautifully ethereal, even peaceful. He thought of a dozen luminous moons looking over her cradle while she laid sleeping, wrapped in her swaddling cloth, and unaware of the chaotic universe that was to be her home. She was perfect, and her voice was perfect for her. The trickster held her tightly to him and smiled, wondering how he had come to be so fortunate to have a daughter like Hel.

She fell asleep in his arms, lulled by his heartbeat and lullaby. Loki watched the lightning fork across the sky and heard the thunder chasing after it, rattling his house until he feared for a split second that it would tumble to its foundations. He clutched her tighter. Hel shuffled in her sleep and he eased his fingers with an apologetic frown.

Then, downstairs, he heard the front door open. Loki listened as his wife's footsteps echoed on the staircase, and furrowed his brow when he heard her approaching.