The Fates do not weave the world. Rather, like the road building, connect cities with winding trails. And - as the traveler may choose any destination of his own will - they do not control the outcome. They wove a moment once, of a lazy afternoon in Asgard by a river, Nike and Thor sitting side by side. She tells him she cannot wait for their wedding, that she is terrible possessive of him alone.
"I thought you regarded that as mundane," Thor teases, running his hand along her arm and twining it with hers. "I thought monogamy was an unknown concept to you."
She flushes. "I'm regretting I said anything."
"Oh no, no you misunderstand me." he kisses her cheek. "I want nothing more than that. Nothing more than you."
A shy smile crosses her face. "Does Asgard get terribly cold?"
"For you, yes. We will visit Olympus often in the winter, and you will have all the furs you want to keep you warm."
"What about you? Will you keep me warm?"
With a grunt, he pulls her into his lap. "If you are cold, we will never leave bed."
"What a sacrifice for you," she chirps brightly.
"That will be your wedding present," he decides. "A fur cloak to keep you warm when I'm not there."
"I love it already," she decides, and kisses him.
The three sisters wove this path, only to tear it out, and never see it come to pass.
Thor dreams that he is holding her. He dreams of a warm body pressed to his, of a neck begging to be kissed. He dreams that he is safe, and that she - content - never wants to leave, just rests in the circle of his arms.
He awakes reaching for her across a cold bed. The Asgardian sun rises, but the dawn is lifeless - cold and mocking. Two years had been enough time to forget her laugh before that dream. But there are duties to be done; he prepares for his day.
The day is well into its height, and he sits at a desk, composing a letter. Fandral and Sif sit on the other side, waiting.
"Are you feeling all right, Thor?" Sif asks finally. "Today is not a day for distance."
"Hm?" he did not notice that he was staring at the paper, having written nothing in quite sometime. "Yes, of course."
His two companions share a look. No Midgardian should do this to him, their glance says. The Olympians would have scoffed at him; he is as Selene.
The throne room has a line of citizens, come with pleas for jobs or justice or even advice. For the first time, Thor sits alone. Odin is away, leaving him to deal with the folk. He helps as best as he can, but there is no passion in the act; he is distracted by his dream. The skin, the hair, the eyes haunt his thoughts. The line dwindles through the afternoon, and by supper it is entirely gone. There is a feast set: Winternights, to celebrate the coming of winter. It is loud and boisterous, and Thor plays along with the charade of being happy. At some point during the night some girl ends up in his lap, sloppy with drink and celebration. She is the kind of girl common to Asgard: tall, broad shouldered and hipped, with a soft middle and strong legs. All in all, a welcome distraction from dreams of thin lipped girls.
He is leaving with her when Fandral hits him on the back; he is sitting, practically intertwined with Sif. "Glad you forgot about Jane."
Thor stares at him, hazy through drink. "Jane?"
He is drunk. That is the only explanation for what he is seeing. She has obviously just arrived sitting on the edge of his bed, unlacing her boots. That is the alcohol too, he thinks, she does not wear boots or leather leggings or cropped jackets.
"I do not think of her as your type," Nike says dryly, eyeing the girl. "Leave." She scuttles from the room just as Thor finds his tongue.
"Loki! This is not funny."
She looks almost comically hurt for a moment before regaining her composure. "I can see why you would think that. It's far more logical to think he's doing this now, from a high secure cell, than that he helped me earlier, isn't it?" She pulls off her other boot, casting it aside. Her feet are covered in thick grey socks.
"What do you mean?"
She comes forward towards him. "It's me, Thor. I wanted my freedom, and…well, I took it."
The world spins around him, that last tankard of mead swirling in his head. "Why are you here?"
"I missed you." she takes his hand. It feels like her fingers, rough with callouses. "I need you, you know."
"Loki," he growls, "I will end you. You will never feel such pain as when-"
"Go to bed, stupid," she laughs softly. He's too drunk to see the redness around her eyes. "We'll talk in the morning. You'll hate me then more than Loki."
He dreams that night that she is there in his bed. She does not sleep against him, but rolls away to the other side, tense and stiff. It is only when he reaches out for her again and again that she curls against him, sighing into his shoulder.
The bed is cold when he wakes.