"You've been gone for a day." He spat the words out. He didn't want to be having this conversation, holding a grandmother in his arms, knowing this was a life he was supposed to have had, but now it was stolen from him. The bitterness was still there. Cold and hard.
Amy was speechless. They stared at each other, uncomprehending. Not wanting to understand.
He closed his eyes and breathed. He was only supposed to be in his teens, but he felt much, much older. The chamber stank. It smelled of iron, burnt wax, and charcoal.
Magic begins in the heart. He heard his father's voice. Yes, he replied, The heart. So? How does that help me?
He felt the light pressure of Amy's hands on his chest, and felt the bitter in his heart grow. A small bit of repulsion turned into deep sadness. Repulsion and bitterness were bad magics, but sadness was neutral.
And, finally, the last puzzle piece was in place. It didn't slide, or thunk into place, didn't loudly make Sven aware of itself. It was almost as if it had been there all along, only now Sven was just understanding it. He opened his eyes and concentrated on his emotions.
He forgave. He forgave Amy, for leaving. The king, for stealing. Himself, for needing to forgive, for succumbing to resentfulness. The list went on and on until the end product was reached. His magic was fully green again. The brightest, best kind of green—pure and healing.
He placed his thumb on Amy's forehead, the way he had once seen his father do to his mother. It was an old Midgardian way of blessing someone.
So he gave it away. His magic. All of it. Poured the blessing and forgiveness and healing into Amy's body and her mind and her heart until—he was empty. And happy. He understood his father, and his grandfather. With each generation the love had grown a little more.
Amy was still in his arms, gazing up at him, only this time her eyes were unclouded and her face was smooth. She looked about twenty.
Sven could feel a few wrinkles sitting on his face. How strange. They felt like crinkled paper, a little soft, but also slightly digging into his skin. Just two faint smile lines around his mouth, and a few crows feet around his eyes. His mother would tell him, later, that he inherited the crows feet from his father. He didn't look too much older, though his eyes were ancient.
He smiled a little, not remembering how to grin.
"Let's go home."
…...
Loki tripped and fell when he felt the shifting of magic. He lay, stunned, with his stomach on the rocks, trying to wrap his mind around what he had just felt. He got back up, and continued to run. He felt so out of place. Disjointed. Full of energy, but empty too. It was to much to deal with—this after effect of the giving. Right now, he just needed his son.
He met them in a hallway outside a broken wooden door. The event was over, the magic dimmed, the former children leaving the hall. The room inside was dark and empty. His eyes watered when he saw his son. He quickly grabbed him in a hug.
"I'm sorry," He whispered to his son. I'm sorry. It was all he could think of to say.
They left the tomb of a mountain. Loki had enough magic to get them where the keeper of the bridge could see them. They were soon in Asgard, and even sooner home.