The following morning, I awoke feeling…odd. Neither upset nor happy. Simply neutral—as though I'd suddenly had room in my heart to appreciate the simplicity of the snow glistening on the treetops, the freshness of the morning air sweeping through me like a cleansing force. As I crawled out of my tent, I saw that the others had awoken already—Loki among them. And when they said hello, Loki's eyes lingered a bit before looking away, warmed by a slight grin that graced his features.

Save for the occasional 'watch your step' and sidelong glance, we didn't say much to each other while the others were present, though Loki did trail beside me for the rest of the trip. Which earned us the occasional glance, but no one mentioned how he no longer strode in front of me.

Hours later, I sprawled over my bed and contemplated things—namely how all of Loki's kind words and gestures over the past few months had paled utterly in comparison to last night's affection. The thought alone made me smile, my thoughts trailing absently to other places as I lay there…

"Aila?" I jumped suddenly, my eyes flying open to the sight of Davos situating himself down in the middle of the bed—brown hair slightly longer, and wilder than usual. He grinned as his eyes flickered down to my flushed cheeks, "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing important," I shook my head as I sat up.

"If it makes you smile like that, it must be important."

"It's nothing—nothing I want to talk about anyway," I responded as kindly as I could.

Confusion flickered in his eyes. "Well, we don't seem to talk these days at all anymore."

"I know. It's neither of our faults, I've just been occupied well into the evenings—you know that."

"Right," he nodded a bit sullenly. "Since you started working for the lesser Prince."

I frowned. "Please don't call him that, Davos."

His brows shot up. "What? You've called him that yourself on many occasions—just last week, even."

"Well, now I don't."

It was easy to see the bit of darkness slowly clouding over his expression. "Aila…" he muttered darkly. "Why do you care all of a sudden?"

I shrugged. "Is it so strange to be bothered by someone insulting the man I work for? He's been good to me, you know that as well."

"I do," he nodded, "You're lucky enough to have a harmonious bond with the man you serve, but there are boundaries—"

"I'm well aware, Davos," I interjected curtly. "I know where the lines are. I haven't crossed any."

He arched a brow suspiciously. "I wasn't suggesting you had already."

In fact, I had crossed a line just twenty-four hours ago—and I would do it again. Anger pulsed through me as I rose. "I don't want to talk about this. Come, we have the dinner to attend to, and I must change."

"Aila," Davos ground out, and I stopped, half-turnt toward him. The sad, solemn look etched in his expression softened me a bit. "Please don't run from me when I try to talk to you. I will always be your friend, first and foremost. I won't condemn you for anything—I only want you to be safe."

Guilt replaced the anger, and I looked down at the ground before his feet. He was right—Davos had only ever proven that he wanted what was best for me. Whatever it was that came over me, I felt guilty for it—though, not nearly guilty enough to fully explain why. Even I didn't understand my own defensiveness completely. Perhaps it was anxiety, some deeply rooted instinct telling me that last night was a mistake against my own safety. Perhaps my heart stepped in to fight—to defend—the kiss when he implied it.

Davos didn't seem like he intended to push me any further. Knowing him as long as I had, I knew he sensed that something was off. Though we both knew that trying to force me to speak would prove fruitless, and likely have the opposite effect. So he didn't push me—not as he stood and came in for a quick embrace, and not as he ushered me away to prepare for the dinner.

Loki would not be in attendance this evening, but his mother would—not that I would see her. The servants would be caring for her company, and a select few slaves were chosen to set up the rest of the hall that evening.

I was the only woman chosen among the group of male slaves—all carrying the heavy chairs to the room, and climbing up with heavy lamps to decorate the hall. Even though Astrid was demoted, traces of her position remained, and this was one of them. I'd nearly slipped on the ladder at some point, and the nearby guard had clearly grown tired of my incompetence…it was sheer luck that Davos had managed to finish his task, and rushed over to help with mine. The overseeing guard backed off when he saw that the work would be finished, though not without a threatening quip.

I scowled bitterly when I turned away, and the rotting feeling stayed with me until we were finished. It was late, and I was positively exhausted. Even back in the kitchen, as I gnawed away on the stale bread that was left for me—another one of Astrid's 'changes' that hadn't been reversed—I was damn near tears. All this was supposed to end once she was gone, but I couldn't say anything. The complaint alone could be costly.

If there weren't other people around, I would have cried. From hunger, from exhaustion… Though that would have led to an onslaught of questions from the other slaves, and the servants might have complained—another costly consequence.

"Still enjoying that, are you?" A familiar voice came from behind me as I leaned against the countertop.

I turned my head slowly, recognizing both the voice and the skirt. Astrid. She'd been trailing behind the new Head Maid, who seemed to spare a glance before she continued onward. Everyone else in the kitchen had turned and glanced at us—most of them continuing on with their business in the meantime.

None, save for the two of us and the Prince, knew what Astrid's issues were with me. A favorite of the royal family, the rumors said. No one among the slaves had an inkling of the truth—I hadn't told anyone after all, though there was no telling what Astrid had told her peers.

I turned back to the table, willing myself to let it go.

"Aila," she ordered again, but I ignored it. I was already tired and upset—no need to tempt the ire further.

A hand suddenly grasped my shoulder, and tugged me back harshly enough for me to drop the bread. I stared down at it on the ground, frustration rising at the thought of not having anything else to eat until tomorrow. Our long trek that morning hadn't earned me any additional food, and while Loki would likely share one meal with me, most likely, every ounce of food mattered—I hated the idea of not getting enough from what he offered me. Now, I would be that much more hungry.

Astrid kicked it away, and the kitchen went silent. The guards watched from the doors that the Head Maid had gone through, shifting slightly at the disturbance. I tried to step away, and she stood in front of me instead.

An unsettling grin tugged at her lip. "I've been demoted, you know," she hissed quietly—perhaps only loud enough for the two of us to hear—and her feminine voice was laced with a thinly veiled aggression. "Because you've somehow gotten someone to give half a shit about you."

Panic bloomed in me, and I tried again to squirm away from her—but she didn't let me. She stepped in closer, further locking me against the table. "What is it about you that has him so vexxed?" she crooned, and I gasped when she reached up and gave my hair a tug. "You're not even pleasant to look at—can't be that much better without your clothes on."

I was starting to see red, and I dared a glance up at her shoulder as I tried to push away. "Leave me alone, Astrid."

"Or what?" she mused. "Are you going to go run and tell your Prince? Tell him that someone's been terrorizing his little bed ornament? We already saw how that played out, didn't we?" We did—absolutely nothing happened to her. "He's really proven something by choosing you, perhaps his own idiocy for thinking that you could ever satisfy him the way a woman could…"

My hands clenched into fists, a headache raging between my temples—sending bolts of pain up my neck as I tensed more and more. "I said, leave me alone…" My own voice had begun to tremble.

"Tell me, does he ever talk about me?" she murmured quietly, close enough that I could feel her breath on my cheek. "Does he ever mention how our evening had satisfied him? How he hissed my name in a moment of ecstasy?"

He didn't know your name. I was almost tempted to say it—the vile combination of jealousy and disgust had practically demanded it.

"…but then again, what would the lesser Prince know to say, anyway? He's thrown his own intelligence in question, proven hardly deserving of more than something like you can offer."

My hand flew through the air before I'd even realized it, striking her hard enough to send her back a few feet, crashing into the table. Gasps erupted, and I merely stood there, wide-eyed, with my hand still in the air. Fear crept in, blooming wildly at the grin that Astrid wore as she turned back to me slowly.

"Guards!" she suddenly screamed, and movement flurried. Panic and terror shot through me, and I bolted across the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of people—as though there was somewhere I could've escaped through. The offices at the end of the hall? Those were for the servants, I'd drop from the window and die if I tried to escape through there.

I tried to reach the door, jumping around the tables and darting between others who stood watching, but I was caught. Hands clamped down harshly on my shoulders and arms, bending them in ways they shouldn't be bent. I screamed out and cried, mostly in fear of what was about to come.

Attacking a servant, was…severe.

How could I have been so foolish? Exhaustion and hunger was no excuse—how could I have done this? Where did I even find the nerve? None of it mattered, now. None of it mattered as I fought the guards vehemently—tugging and pulling and crying out in protest as they dragged me away. I screamed and cried, but only the other slaves looked at me—wetness reddening some of their eyes. The servants stared on blankly, though pity did grace some of their faces.

They all knew what was coming.


Something pulsed through Loki, rousing him as he sat up from his bed.

Something wasn't right…

It was nighttime already, but he wasn't expecting Aila to return—she'd had another assignment for the evening, and was to return to the catacombs afterward. He'd been sleeping peacefully until that sharp instinct tore through him, urging him that something was awry—but with whom? Obviously his first thought was Aila—nothing within the palace walls posed a threat to anyone else that mattered. His mother and father could take care of themselves, as could his brother, and anything that threatened them would have made itself known to all.

Investigate, the instinct urged him, and he stood from his bed. Loki quickly slipped into a pair of pants and boots, and threw a heavy robe over his bare back—barely tying it as he threw open the door and walked out. But where? He paused and continued intermittently, wandering around the hallways, trying to get a glimpse of that instinct again.

Dread had filled him, and annoyance topped it off at his utter inability to discern its source.

"Loki?" He turned sharply, seeing his mother just down the hallway from him, surrounded by her handmaidens. "What are you doing here, so late in the evening?"

He might've asked her the same thing, had he not known about the dinner with her friends. That was what Aila was called away for. "I…don't know," he shook his head. "Something roused me from sleep, and I haven't discerned what it was."

Two of the handmaidens exchanged a quick look, while the queen looked on. Loki furrowed a brow slightly at them as Frigga spoke, "It'll do you no good to wander about like this, go back to sleep and see how you feel in the morning."

"Perhaps," he mumbled, watching as one of the girls glanced at the other. "Is Aila alright? How did she seem tonight?"

"I didn't see her," Frigga turned to her handmaidens. "She must have gone back to the kitchens—didn't she, girls?" All three of them—tall and willowy—fell silent, gazing at the queen perturbedly. Frigga frowned. "…Didn't she?"

Finally, the middle one answered after a moment of silence. "Aila was in the kitchens, yes, but…"

The queen arched a brow. "But what?"

"But there was a…confrontation earlier this evening, we heard about it from someone."

A nervous knot formed in Loki's stomach. "What kind of confrontation?"

"They said the lady Astrid was chastising her, and…Aila struck her."

"She did what?" His voice came out as barely a whisper. A transgression like that…

"Why on Earth would she do such a thing?" the queen inquired incredulously.

"Our friend heard semblances of what lady Astrid said," the maiden looked back at her, "She was addressing your youngest in a disrespectful manner. The guards took her away…"

Anxiety and ire twisted in Loki's chest. Ire at Aila's foolishness—her utter disregard for her own safety, in the face of such a trivial thing, and anxiety for her current state. Wherever she was, there wasn't a chance this didn't go unpunished—if they were harsh enough, she could already be….

No. He refused to think it.

Loki turned and strode down the hallway.

"Loki!" his mother called for him, and then quickly dismissed her handmaidens before coming after him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to find her," he growled.

"You don't have to do anything—"

"I have to find her!" he cried, stopping mid-stride, and Frigga stopped just beside him—glaring up at her son.

"But, why?"

"Because, I—" he paused, lips parting and closing as he tried to find the right words. "She's been good to me, and I care for her wellbeing! Is that a crime?"

"It very well could be," Frigga muttered lowly.

Now wasn't the time to contemplate the implications. Loki shook his head and walked away, murmuring to himself, "I must find her."

"I'm coming with you." Frigga's footsteps came up behind him.

"What? No—"

"Where are you going to look first, son?" She raised a brow at him knowingly. "Have you any idea where to start? Do you know anything about how the guard is trained to handle such matters?" He stared at her. "I didn't think so. Now come," she strode ahead of him, "Let's go."

Loki paused, feeling the anxiety taper off from the strength of his mother's resolve. "Where?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "The catacombs."

He followed after her. There were no disguises this time, no masks or anything else to hide their identities. Two guards had followed them down into the humid hollows of the catacombs, and everything looked just the same as Loki appraised it—the same, yellow glow of the torches, and worn furniture. Everything was just as filthy as he remembered it. Some of the slaves were sleeping, while others roused from the sudden disturbance in the halls.

Loki stuttered to a stop at the sight of one of the small beds, nestled against the far wall. There were clothes lying atop it, and their blood-red stains were bright and large enough to be seen where he was standing. His breath deepened, eyes widened as his hands clenched into fists.

Calm. He needed to remain calm, despite the images flooding his mind—of Aila wearing that gods forsaken uniform. Of her being tortured and mutilated enough to stain them so badly. Loki turned his head sharply, and approached the very first slave that fell into his sight—a young woman, frightfully pale, who recoiled at his approach.

"Aila, the slave woman," his baritone voice came out as a slight growl. "Do you know her?"

The girl nodded.

"Do you know where she is?"

She looked up at him, sucking in her gaunt cheeks—which only made her blue eyes that much bigger. That much more unsettling. She scurried away without really giving an answer, and Loki exchanged glances with Frigga before following after her, matching her pace as she led them down several halls.

Near the turn of a corner, Loki's breath hitched in his throat at a piercing scream. Dirt kicked up as he came to a stuttering halt. His mother stopped beside him, eyes equally wide with shock. They exchanged reluctant glances before continuing onward, into the next room. Which must have been something of an infirmary, and the source of the scream was immediately placed by another one—which was evidently enough to knock the screamer unconscious.

She lay at the far end of the cavernous room, her face nearly white with paleness, and her usual attire was abandoned for a short tunic that allowed for proper dressing of her wounds.

…of which, there were so many. He couldn't possibly count. And he didn't want to—Loki was rooted in place, unable to look away at the splinted, gashing wounds covering Aila's body. Streams of dried blood covering her limbs. Frigga's breath came out as a tremble beside him, and it only took a moment for everyone in the room to realize they were present. Moments more for them to step away, even the person who seemed to be caring for Aila's wounds. Only one remained—the young man kneeling beside her, stroking her hand, who merely looked back at the two of them from across the room.

Loki recognized him, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing else was being registered as he approached her, falling to one knee beside the bed.

"Aila?" he murmured, laying a hand on her head, and stroking her hair. "Aila?"

"She's been in and out," the man said tersely, and Loki looked over at him—straight into his unyielding gaze.

"Why hasn't she been seen by a healer!?" Loki ground out.

"We don't have that privilege," the man muttered bitterly, and only then Loki see the tinge of wetness lining his eyes. It reflected a bit of the torchlight when he looked back down at Aila, and brought her hand up to his lips.

"No…" Loki shook his head, and stood—reaching with one arm under her knees, and the other carefully around her shoulder.

"W-What are you doing?" the man rose with him.

"I'm taking her to the healers." Loki turned with Aila in his arms. Frigga stood near the entrance, still seemingly unable to fully digest the scene.

"Didn't you hear what I said!?" the man said daringly, and Loki shot him a glare over his shoulder.

"I heard you fine," he scowled, and stormed off before the man could get another word in, passing by Frigga on his way out. "Come, mother."

The queen nodded faintly, but stared back at the bed where Aila had been laying. Loki stopped. "Are you alright?" She nodded again, and Loki frowned. "Take her to her chambers," he said to one of the guards.

Frigga's head turned toward him sharply. "What? No, no I'm alright—"

"You're not alright," he muttered. "Go. I will deal with this."

One glance at the young girl, and Frigga had to look away—nodding just briskly enough to suggest that Loki made the right call.

He didn't wait for her to argue as he stalked back through the catacombs. Aila felt so small in his arms, so light—but of course she did, she'd hardly eaten for several weeks, because of that woman. And that woman… He'd had enough. She was as good as a dead woman walking. One way or another, Loki would take this matter into his own hands.

He walked quickly, trying to reach the healers as fast as he could. Naturally, there was a great deal of protest—about the slave's ability to pay for the treatment, if nothing else.

"I will pay for it," he argued again and again, assuring them that he would pay the 'advanced' cost for the care of a slave. Which allowed her to be properly cleaned and clothed in better attire. A white dress that ended at her knees, and a soft, white robe to cover her shoulders

"Three thousand gold pieces," the healer muttered when they were finished, and Loki glared at her.

"Three thousand," he repeated bitterly, and the woman nodded. "Yet you refuse to watch her for the night—what services rendered could yield such an extravagant cost?"

"I understand your objections, my lord," the healer insisted earnestly. "I truly do—but these are our laws. The laws of the Allfather. It's unorthodox to have a slave here at all."

"What am I to do with her, then?"

"Allow her to rest somewhere," the healer said, and approached him with a handful of small tablets. "Her surface wounds have healed, but she will be in great pain until the process is finished. Have her take these tonight if she wakes, they will also help with the pain." Loki eyed the tablets as she turned and strode away, giving him a final look over her shoulder. "I truly am sorry."

The glare he gave her must have been icy, and it turned to discomfort when she was gone. Silence hardened throughout the room, and he looked over at Aila, still lying on the table—barely moving. His boots echoed through the room as he shuffled toward her, gently lifting a strand of hair from her face.

It seemed so simple that day in the woods. He hadn't thought ahead nor behind when they shared that moment—her hot mouth colliding with his, pressing her against the tree. It felt so damnably good, that he'd forgotten how fragile it all was. How fragile she was, and vulnerable to persecution. This person, who was neither treated nor viewed as such in his own home. He was powerless to stop this happening to her.

There was no greater reminder…Aila's words from that night suddenly echoed in his mind.

Her mother's death was the greatest reminder of her station—of her place in this world. It felt the same right then, with no relief to the sting in sight.

Loki brushed his fingers over her cheeks, wondering when he had begun to care for her so much. It all started with him, with a harmless curiosity, and now…its only end was with him.

She winced a bit when he bent down to lift her again, though the medication kept her asleep. "There, now," he murmured quietly, trying to distribute the pressure of his arms where he thought it wouldn't hurt her.

Aila would be fully healed by morning, but she wouldn't be returning to the catacombs tonight.


I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept so soundly. So comfortably. And when the morning light poured over my eyes, I opened them slowly, registering the softness of a pillow beneath my head—the pressure of a thick blanket comforting me wholly. If not for that, I would've had a moment of panic at not knowing where I was. And I might've sat up sharply, if not for the soreness I still felt all over my body. Instead I rose slowly, steadily scanning the familiar surroundings.

I paused the moment I realized just where I was—the Prince's chambers. His bed. I was in Loki's bed.

I turned my head sharply, seeing the pillow missing from the other half of the bed. The subtle aroma of fragrant spices lifted from the covers at the sudden movement, and it took one look about the room to notice the pillow lying far off on one of the couches—where Loki lay atop it. With one leg bent against the back of the couch, his arms were crossed over his chest.

As I stared at his sleeping form, I spent a moment combing through whatever I remembered from the day before: Astrid, the guards, and… barbed whips that damn near clung to my flesh.

I shuddered a bit, shaking my head to purge the image from my eyes.

Loki seemed well asleep as I took in the peacefulness for a moment, wondering what had actually transpired in the time I was unconscious. It was like falling asleep—my vision had gone black with tiny little blotches, and my own blood was the last thing I'd seen. Now there was a vast, white blanket strewn before me.

My eyes darted down to my body next, and I felt around for remnants of the punishment—feeling only the familiar scars that I'd collected from lesser ones over the years.

I looked over at Loki, feeling thankful for the robe that covered the lot of them. Had he put it on me himself? Had he…changed my clothes? Heat flushed through me at the implication alone, though I quickly deduced that it couldn't have been the case. I was healed, which meant that I had somehow ended up in the healer's wing. They must have done it.

Which also meant that…he must have taken me. Who else would do it, after all? Who else would, or could, carry the encumbering expense of healing a slave?

Warmth spread through my chest, and my legs slid out from the blanket before I even realized that I was moving. I tugged the robe more tightly across my chest and sauntered toward him, kneeling beside him on the ground, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His beautiful features lay utterly calm, and I reached out to take his hand—deciding against it at the last moment. I didn't know how long he was awake last night—let him sleep.

I smiled a bit as warmth tightened in my chest. Warmth, and embarrassment at needing to be helped again.

My eyes trailed back around the room, and I rose slowly to walk away from him. I'd gone through and tidied this space up so many times, yet it still felt different—as though I were looking at it through another set of eyes. Ones that weren't looking for something to clean. Instead, they were seeing traces of Loki just about everywhere. His books were perfectly aligned, furniture carved and aligned in a way that allowed the perfect amount of natural light to pour over his bed—where he often sat to read. Where I'd slept last night.

I sat back on the edge of the mattress, sliding my feet under the blanket as I smiled—enjoying it just a bit longer. Loki slept here every night, which must have explained his seemingly perpetual glow. He had to be so well-rested.

"Aila?" I flinched at the sound of my voice, seeing Loki rising slowly from the couch.

The flurry of movement almost roused a giggle as he rubbed his brow, stood from the couch, and stumbled into the table all in one go. He appeared almost as though he were drunk, as he approached me. I smiled up at him as he sank onto the mattress by my feet, rubbing the sleep away from his reddened eyes.

I reached out to take his hand, but he moved it away. I frowned a bit…Had he done that on purpose? "Loki, I'm-"

"Don't," he shook his head, "Don't say you're sorry."

"I was going to say that I'm confused, but glad to see you," an apologetic grin tugged on my lip, "And then I was going to say that I'm sorry. Or ask for an explanation, maybe—I really don't remember anything at all after…" I paused. "Well, I suppose know…"

Loki nodded slightly, staring down at the ground tiredly. "You needed a healer after...what transpired. And then you needed a place to rest," he explained dryly, and a bit more sullenly than I would have anticipated.

I nodded. "Well, I'm grateful—you could've brought me back to the catacombs, and-"

"You know damn well I couldn't have done that," he interjected a bit tersely, and I frowned. Less at his tone, and more at the tire in his eyes.

It struck me then, how exhausted he looked, and it was because of me. The thought alone sent a wave of guilt sweeping through me. As kind as the morning was to me, clearly it was the prelude to a difficult day for Loki—after what appeared to be a very sleepless night.

"Okay," I murmured. "Well, I don't remember what happened last night…"

"You were punished severely for a confrontation with one of the servants," he said. I remembered that part all too well. "Though I don't know what possessed you to do such a foolish thing."

I pressed my lips together. "It happened so quickly, I didn't even realize what I'd done until it was over."

"Well now, that doesn't matter anyway, does it?" he murmured, shaking his head. "None of it does. And I-I can't say I'm angry with you."

"Really?" I answered incredulously. "It sure seems you're feeling something to that effect right about now…"

He paused for a moment, pointedly avoiding my gaze. "It's not what I'm feeling, but what I know that matters."

"And what do you know?"

He blinked a few more times, eyes narrowing with a heavy thought. "I know that you cannot continue in my employment."

My throat tightened. "…What?"

Loki exhaled through his nostrils, poised as ever, with a momentary show of frustration as he ran his hand through his hair, and then looked back at me—wearing a mask of neutrality. A mask of calm, if not disappointment. Nothing like what I'd seen from him just two nights ago. There was none of the care and softness he'd looked upon me with—none of the lidded heaviness and desire in his eyes, when his mouth was slated and writhing over mine. There was nothing but ice.

"This is your notice, Aila," he said. "You will not be continuing in this position. My protection will extend to you through the rest of your days, I will make sure that the guards are aware of that. But at the turn of each day, whatever misfortune that has befallen you has been because of this arrangement—so I am terminating it."

"No," I shook my head, and tension flickered through his jaw as he blinked away. "I don't want you to—I don't need you to."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter." He answered dryly as he stood, facing away from me for a moment. "You're welcome to stay here for the day, as long as you wish. You may continue your practices with the seidr as you see fit, and ask me questions in private when they arise. But starting tomorrow, you are dismissed from your duties to me."

"No, Loki, I—" I reached for his hand, but he tugged it away the moment my fingertips brushed his. "The other night, we…we…"

He tensed, and then looked back at me, sporting an unsettling calmness. "We shared a momentary lapse of judgement," he said pointedly. "I am a Prince of Asgard, and you are a slave. Beyond this day, you would do well not to think of it again."

Tears filled my eyes as I watched him stalk across the room, taking one of the long overcoats off one of the couches and throwing it over him. Suddenly the bed was far less comfortable. The soreness had returned with full strength, as did the headaches. And when he disappeared around the threshold of the door, the thud of its close echoed through the empty chamber.


Betchya didn't see that coming. This chapter was difficult to write, I really don't like imagining any of my characters in excruciating pain. Or any characters in any story in general, not even the bad ones. It really takes a toll on me. Astrid's vile scheme was also rough, I felt gross just typing it out-but knowing I felt gross, I imagined how Aila felt. I would've snapped too.

As for our lovebirds... When I first wrote this chapter, I ended up deleting and changing a lot of it. I wanted there to be some kind of sensual bit when Loki carried her back to his room, but that just didn't feel right no matter the angle I tried to take. When I realized that there's no way in hell that Loki wouldn't start blaming himself for everything that happened to her, that's when the words started literally pouring onto the paper. It's my little way of gauging what my writer instincts are telling me-scenes that don't belong tend to come out of me at a turtle's pace.

Anywho, thank you all for reading and reviewing. It means so, so much, and keeps me coming back to this on a consistent schedule. After the last chapter, for DAYS, I had the hilarious image of Loki rolling around in snow because he didn't have access to a cold shower lol (thank you SoS). My writer brain "went there," and the look on Aila's face stumbling into him was hilarious. His face was doubly amusing. This chapter was on the heavier side, but I hope it gave you guys the feels all the same. Til next time :)