Loki's return has set me off-balance. Although I swore to myself I would not let him drive me from the courts, encountering him last night has my heart thundering and breath short.
I will not falter. This night I spent with my own thoughts, realised I too am guilty of what I accused Loki of. I've let him change me, make me what I was not, and it's time to be myself again. No more waste my time in the great hall; I've indulged myself enough.
What else did I study magic for, if not to help others? Let me show Loki what he lost. I am who I am, and though I love him, and will yet, I'll be myself, and remind him who that is.
I cross to the mirror, bracing myself on its edge and staring within. Pale green eyes, edged dark with weariness and lack of sleep, look back at me. My hair, pale gold, I've twined atop my head, and stray curls pour like slow honey down my neck. Oh, yes, I know what he sees when he looks at me. But there's more to me than beauty.
Feeling more myself than in days, I stick my tongue out at my reflection and reach for a brush. I'll make myself elegant and go beg engagement of my time in the healers' rooms.
There's always need for another pair of hands, even in Asgard's days of peace, with the healers, and mine are more steady than most. It's not something I ever thought on, being in Loki's orbit, and so Thor's, and the Warriors Three, but blood and pain I do not fear nor flinch at, and the smile of a pretty woman can do much for a young fighter. So I hold basins, bathe wounds, and lend magic where I may.
By day's end I'm weary to the bone, but more at ease within myself than I've been for this long while. Love is a glorious thing, but to be of use, I think now, is far better. I bid goodbye to Eir and Idun, promising to return on the morrow, to learn more of the magic of healing.
These halls are emptier than those I am wont to walk at this hour, but the peace is soothing to my mind and soul. There's an ache yet in my heart, but it's more than what it was yesterday that causes it, and the ache of caring for others, whom I can help, is easier to bear. I'll ease my own, in easing theirs.
So immersed in my own thoughts, I don't notice til I am nearly on him that Loki sits asleep before my rooms. He must have seen there for a long time, because his limbs are sprawled awry and the basket on his lap is nearly tipped to the floor. I can't suppress a fond smile. Half his dark hair has fallen across his face. I kneel and touch his hand, but he does not stir. With infinite care, I brush the strands out of his face, and see the dark circles beneath his eyes, and a healing mark across one cheekbone that I do not remember.
For the first time, I wonder where it was he went. I had thought it was coincidence, that he and Thor were from the courts at the same time, but now I am not sure. Were they somewhere together, then, easing Loki's pain? It would explain the mark; of course Thor's choice of distraction would be battle. Closing my eyes, I lay my fingers against the contusion and sweep magic into it, gentle as a spring breeze. It fades beneath my touch, leaving not even a faint scar.
When I am come back to myself, Loki is watching me, his face as expressionless as ever I've seen it. I withdraw my hand, moving slowly. With equal care, he reorganises himself, folding his legs lotus-fashion and placing the basket between us. He blinks, licks his lips, and looks away for a moment before he speaks.
"Forgive my rudeness. I meant only to be certain you received your gift in good time, but none could tell me where you were. I meant only to wait for a short while ... " he trails off, green eyes flicking away from my face again.
"My ... gift?" I ask. We have never exchanged gifts before; there seemed no need.
Loki touches the basket with one finger. "I brought this ... for you." He opens his mouth again, as if to add more, then closes it. He seems at a loss. Getting to his feet, he gestures me to rise, then picks up the basket, cradling it in both hands.
"What is it?" I enquire, my voice low.
He thrusts the basket at me; perforce I accept lest it fall to the ground. One hand reaches for me, before he turns away, saying hastily, "I hope you like her." Then he is gone, nearly running down the corridor. I can only frown down at the woven fibres in my hands.
I don't want to open it here, where anybody may come by; he seemed so ill-at-ease I want to keep it a secret too. Within the safety of my chambers, I set the basket down and lift the light lid, looking inside.
Curled up tightly, sound asleep, is a small, pale, fluffy kitten.