When Iris returned to her home that evening, Amaryllis met her at the door, "How is he?"
"Unconscious. They do not know if he will live through the night."
"Oh, Iris, love... I am so sorry." She opened her arms and Iris fell into them, resting against her sister, trying not to cry, "Relax. You must let go some time. Best do it now." So Iris cried for her friend and for everything she had envisioned for their future. And when she could finally stop and calm herself, she took a deep breath, brushed away her tears and straightened the front of her dress.
"There is much work to be done. Please, Ama, let me work." She settled at the table and placed the list of commissions beside her as returned to the drawing she had been working on when the messenger arrived. As the daylight dimmed, Amaryllis silently lit the lamps, watching her sister diligently push through the list, crossing off piece after piece, her finished work immaculate. When she went to bed, she knew she would find Iris at the table in the morning.
In the middle of the night, Iris finished the list and set it aside. She retrieved a piece of scrap paper. On her way home, she had come up with an idea- something she could gift to Loki, whether he regained consciousness or not. A book. His story, as he had told it in pieces to her, written in her elaborate script, richly illuminated, and fully illustrated. She quickly outlined her idea and then set to work. There would be time for sleep later. Tonight, her art was her prayer that he would survive the night.
At dawn, Amaryllis opened the dining room windows while Iris put the finishing touches on her pages, "What did you make last night, Sister? And did you sleep?"
"No, I did not. But I made a masterpiece."
Amaryllis hovered behind her, "Show me."
She started with the cover illustration of the prince at his desk diligently writing something on a long scroll that draped over the back, a pile of books behind him. Amaryllis had been stunned by the simple grace of her sister's illustrations for years. While her illuminated capitals were more traditional and her knotwork was exceptional, her illustration style was never coloured and reminded her of the elaborate paper-cut pictures that she had seen framed in the homes of the older women, mounted on black paper. They were not vast swatches of black with very little white paper left to merely outline scenes. They were paper lace, their scenes elaborate, the lattice often fine and delicate. This was the way Iris illustrated. Often she hid forms in the linework, little hidden elements of her stories.
As she turned through the pages, Amaryllis was struck by how much Iris knew about Loki's life, "What is this picture with the Bifrost? Do you mean to tell me that he was behind the malfunction so many years ago?"
"You will tell no one what you see in this. There are parts of his story he does not want known yet. I will share them in more detail with you when the time is right, but not while his life is so precarious. Right now, his secrets are his alone to share."
A few pages later, there was an illustration of Loki with a sceptre standing over two men. And then he was shown imprisoned, his cell in complete disarray. There was another image of him flying on a skiff over the water, and then a large page with him on the throne, half his face Odin, half his. Then his cell in its simpler arrangement, a pile of books on the desk, a body crumpled on the floor. Another showed both Iris and Loki studying in more elaborate chambers, the piles of books so high they framed the picture. And lastly he lay with a rose on his chest, a note under his hands, eyes closed, blood flowing from his wrists. On the last page, the final character, a question mark, was in an illuminated square the same way the capitals at the start of her sections were.
"A beautiful gift, Sister. But what if he is no longer living?"
"Then I will send it with him to the next world. But it is not my story to keep."
"Iris, this is one of the most beautiful pieces I have ever seen you create. You cannot simply send it to the flames."
"I can do what I wish with it, it is my work. If I can create something this beautiful once, I can do it again."
"But I do not see how anything else will have such love in it."
"I know. My decision stands. This one is his." She gathered her pages, put away her drawing tools, and rose from the table, "Hand me some of the brown wrapping paper. I want to protect this before I travel."
"You will spend the day at the palace again?"
"Of course. You would expect anything else?"
"No. Nothing else." She hugged Iris, "You are one of the most dedicated people I have ever known. I pray you do not feel heartbreak on this day."
"Thank you." She wrapped her book and took her leave for the palace.