Coming up again, Frigga's heart pounded a febrile rhythm. It had been too long she stayed, too far she wandered, but it was –
It was coming back. In cold waves that flooded her mind and dragged at her heart.
She felt her heart beating and settled on the drubbing of it. Settled on the rise and fall of her breast as she breathed.
Bent forward over her arm, she rested her brow dizzily in her hand. She breathed through the nausea, wading out from the cold waves that dragged still about her ankles.
Drawing a long breath, she sat back and she opened her eyes to the reality of the room about her.
He was alive.
Rising to her feet, she went to the door and she left her rooms.
Ever since the first shock of her mourning, she had sought him. She had not felt his death as she thought she should have. She had not known, in her bones, that he was dead.
So she'd sought him. Down every path and way she could find. Sought him in heart and memory of those who might have seen him. Sought him in the shade of trees and mountains and moons whose shadow might have been disturbed by his passing. Sought him in dreams and imaginings and fables that might bear some marking of a god in flight, in hiding, or a god harboring wounds. Sought him in the homes and healing halls and no-man-places of a thousand races and times.
He was clever, her boy. He had always been strong. And in those months she had had to believe that he might have discovered a way. A way to remain alive. A way to come home to her.
But the time had gone on long.
She had sought him in until her very bones ached for it. She had found no trace to give her hope. She had grown weary to death.
But then, a flicker.
She had been seen.
And drawn by the eyes of this other, she had turned about on her quest, and she had seen him.
He was gotten up in armor.
The Void about them sucked at her, drawing what force she yet had, straining.
Later, she would wonder that it did not trouble him.
But in the moment, she was only amazed to finally have found him.
His eyes watched her, brows drawn as in confusion. "Mother," he said.
"Loki," she breathed. Inadvertently, she reached out to him.
Wordlessly, he cast her away.
She had returned to herself and she had left her rooms and she went down the long halls of the palace, steadying her breath and composing herself as she went.
She entered Odin's study without making any prologue of her coming.
Only twice before had she done such a thing.
Once, brimming with unspeakable, girlish joy at the tiny fulfilment of life within her.
Once, livid with rage that could not leave her but in low tones and slow execution, enraged that he could ask of her such a thing as he had demanded.
Odin glanced up at the intrusion. Seeing her, he straightened. He raised one hand to still his advisors. Their talk lowered to a bubbling murmur, then faded to awed silence.
Odin went through them until he stood no more than a hair's breadth before her.
"Odin," she breathed. Taking his strong arms in her hands she looked up at him.
"He's alive."
