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[ Can she promise him that she would, no matter what? Even if he's less... pliant than he is now? Less honest?

Possibly as much as he can promise her forever, he realizes. Asking would do nothing to soothe him. They have no control over the future, he knows that. They can only control how they respond to it, and possibly poorly at that. ]

You're too kind. [ It sounds like a joke but it isn't. ]

I have not always been.

[ She winces into closing her eyes at what feels like a withdraw; too far. She'd pushed too far. ]

And I am not always now.

[ Even softer, slightly pained: ]

Is it kind, do you think? To see you and to be so desperate to be close, to be wanted, to be held, to be loved again, that I will press my hands into every wound I think you have to show I know you?

I have thrown myself upon you with my weight of years, and tried to press them into hours so I might have you not in future, but right now. Have pulled a flower open because I wept with want of its bloom, I—

[ A bare whisper, now: ]

I cannot think it kind.

[ He opens his mouth but all that comes out at first is a huff of breath before he leans in and kisses her nose.

He had told Mobius that no one was completely good, or evil, and he thinks of that now. Kindness, and unkindness, are not quite the same dichotomy but it feels... similar. Even murderers can be kind. Even the gentlest soul can do harm. ]

What do I really know of kindness? [ He asks her honestly. ] Too much and I distrust it. Turn away from it.

I'm unused to it.

Besides which, you didn't promise me kindness. You promised me honesty, and you promised me now, and as much as I don't want to sour you on me I'm terrified that if I don't, something else will, and I'll be even more unprepared for it than I am in this moment.

[ She said she wanted forever, and he thinks he wants that too. Is afraid of what it will mean if he isn't granted it. If he has it only for a moment just to have her turn away. ]

I'm a sharp and dangerous thing. I've cut you on purpose and now without even intending and you've done me no harm.

[ More trust than there has been, in the matter of Alexandrie's heart, is still a tenuous and fragile thing; so much moreso, here, with him. With how she'd pressed it into his hands faster than thought, believing it already there.

They were different hands, but it's too late now by far for her to take it back, and every moment she believes he holds it precious in his chest next to his own means she is safe again forever and every moment she does not is one in which her body knows she is abandoned. That it isn't the same, won't be the same, he does not love her, will not love her—

But the simplicity of a kiss for her nose and she is quiet again. Able to listen to him speak without the rising howl of wind behind it.

She takes a breath, long and deep, looks at him as if even in the darkness he could see the firmness of her truth in it. ]

I have held the blade that sometimes bleeds; have chosen it, knowing it will, and chosen it with joy.

[ Softer, then: ] I am not afraid of what you are. Only afraid that you will see I bleed and turn away to save me in a way I do not wish for.

I will not ask for trust, but I will ask for this: that you will not leave me when I love the parts of you that you cannot. That you will not leave me when you fear I will leave you and your only choice in it is when.

[ Something Loki is learning, here, in the dark, with Alexandrie Lucette Seraphine Arienne d'Asgard, is that being seen? Is akin to having a spotlight on one's soul, when it's been content and furious to hide in the shadows.

It is hot and bright and terrifying.

Her words cut him to the quick because it is what he would do — leave her in anticipation of being left, turn away because he's hurt her too greatly and surely, surely, she will tire of him and his shenanigans.

He's tired of them.

Loki can feel her gaze upon him in the dark, waiting for his answer. ]

Du har mitt ord. Even if I am afraid, I won't turn away from you. [ A breath, shakier than he'd like. Can he do this? Will he manage to keep his word? ] But I can't promise I won't be afraid.

[ The hand on his face goes looking for his so she can hold it. ]

I am afraid too.

[ Her hand finds his; he laces their fingers together and gives a small squeeze. ]

What do you do, to stop feeling afraid?

[ Is there a cure? Probably not. But everyone does something. ]

Shriek.

[ Little quiet puffs of mirthful air come from her nose. ]

When I rage, it covers up the fear. I feel it less, but it is always there.

[ She squeezes back. ]

Speak of it, and then be held and told it is not real. Or at the very least, that I am not alone.

I don't have it in me to shriek right now.

[ Besides which, his shrieking would bring someone to the tent, surely, and Loki doesn't want that.

He brings their entwined hands up to his lips, where he can kiss her fingers. ]

I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen. That just when I begin to feel certain in this, in you, that it's going to be taken away from me.

And I don't know what I'll do, then.

[ She lifts herself up a little so she can move higher in their little makeshift nest and tugs at his hand, offering her arms and the softness of her breast as a pillow. ]

I cannot say it will not.

But I can say that if it does, it will not—

[ She chokes on it, and suddenly her voice is rough with emotion because she believes. She still believes that if her lord, her love, her Loki, the man whose House and name she bears, had had a choice in it, he would be home. ]

It will not be a thing that I have chosen. And wherever we may be, I weep for you.

[ He takes the invitation, moving to rest his head on her shoulder, face close to the skin of her chest. It's best that she doesn't promise him that nothing terrible will happen; they both know better than to presume that.

Neither of them are children after all and they've already lost so much. ]

Don't weep too long, [ he tells her quietly, seriously. ] You've cried enough over me just today.

[ He wants to promise her that whatever happens, he'll make the attempt. Try to reach her, to reconnect, to... something.

But he's not sure he can promise that, all things considered, and he'd rather not lie to her right now. ]

[ She bends her head down to kiss his head, then bury her face in his hair and breathe there. ]

I will weep as long as I need to.

It is how I keep my promise of forever on my own.

[ Loki makes a soft noise at that, unsure of what to say. He trusts her to choose what is best for herself but still, it unsettles him, the thought of her crying over him for too long.

(Would it be better, if she cried only for her missing husband, or worse?) ]

Alright, [ he says for the second time, acquiescing to her. It feels a little less terrifying this time around, but Loki is no less exhausted by it. ]

[ The soft noise makes her smile a little, fragile, against his head. Prompts another kiss, a stroke of the slope of his shoulder before she settles her arms around him like the shelter of wings. ]

Of course I should rather not.

I should rather keep you.

[ Loki sighs into her arms, enjoying being held this way. He's tired, and as much as he hates the idea of falling asleep right now perhaps it wouldn't be too terrible.

Perhaps he'd only have sweet dreams, nightmares chased away by her kisses. ]

I should rather like to be kept, for once.

Then I shall.

[ Decisively said, as if she is in charge of fortune. A thing of childlike surety, chosen belief.

She is quiet for a little while, feeling his breath against her. Smiling fondly in the dark and thinking of nothing but the simple solace of his weight in her arms.

Then her quiet huffs of mirth again, stirring his hair. ]

Is it telling, do you think, that all our planning is for sorrow? No sooner met but we turn at once to fretting we will part?

Let us dream a little, instead. Tell me something that would give you joy.

It speaks to our experience. Good things taken too soon.

[ Loki's words come out a little sleepy at first. Her questions rouse him from a twilight state, taking a deep breath in and being rewarded by the scent of her and her perfume all over again. What would bring him joy?

To not feel this afraid always, but that is not quite what she means is it? ]

To hear you laugh, happy and drunk.

[ The sort of manic energy that one gets from having imbibed too much alcohol is just about his favorite thing; he remembers, suddenly, Sylvie's annoyed expression when he'd gotten drunk on the train, and how he'd wished he'd been able to get her to drink too. To smile or laugh or relax a little. ]

To take you dancing. To spin you in a room of onlookers who are jealous for reasons they don't wish to understand and to not care about it.

[ And she remembers. Remembers sweeping into ballrooms making a reckless scandal of herself to be announced with an Altus from Tevinter; both of them smug, self-satisfied, with eyes for only one another. Two shining, graceful, dangerous things against the world— and with her hand resting delicate in the crook of his elbow she had been a thing of flame and air, breathless and dizzy with love.

Lately she has been too scared to fly. Envious, watching Byerly and Bastien play, too unsure of her footing to dance like spreading wings. But with him—

A warm and happy hum, as she traces fingers over Loki's shoulder and whispers mischief in his hair. ]

We shall have to take you to a proper tailor, then, for I would have you in brocade and silk to spin me.

[ Her voice somewhat like silk itself, warm with promises: ]

And out of them, after.

Good tailors are hard to find.

[ He sounds amused at the prospect of her dressing him to appeal to her sense of style, but honestly? It would be... nice, actually. To wear nice clothes again, to go dancing.

To ignore the finery of those clothes and leave them trailing on the floor as he follows her.

He tilts his head upwards in order to kiss her chin. ]

Tell me what you'd wear. Are you always in greens and blacks and browns?

[ A chuckle for the question, made warmer by the kiss. ]

Absolument pas! Only in battle.

My gowns are black and greens and golds when I want everyone who sees me to remember at whose side I chose to stand.

[ His. Yours. ]

And so that such gowns may remain the pointed message I wish them to be, my other days are spent in white with bits of rose; lace and pearls and petticoats, parasols, silk stockings…

And garters full of knives.

[ She laughs, then. Kisses his hair and asserts: ]

I am a delicate flower.

Battle is a good place for those colors.

[ He remembers seeing her, with her knives, and being drawn immediately. To the colors, yes, as a matter of course; he knows himself well enough to admit that. But also her skill was remarkable and vaguely familiar.

Loki supposes he knows where those skills may have come from, now. ]

Petticoats, [ he repeats, ] are those the... giant skirts with a mile of poof bundled up underneath? With the hoops? [ He sounds incredulous but also interested. ] Don't you get hot?

[ Laughter again, shaking her a little where he lies against her chest. It is quiet for the night-time, but with a hint of the shape it might have were it ringing across a summer courtyard. ]

Non. There is a nice breeze around my legs, for the petticoats lie over the hoops and so the mile of poof is kept away from me and may serve its solemn duty of making my skirts fall nicely. I have a great deal of room under there.

[ With the innocence of birdsong on a lovely morning: ]

You may check for yourself sometime, if you like.

[ Her fingers find his earlobe to pull it, cheeky but tender, and then walk their way back to settle at his shoulder again. ]

What do your women wear in Asgard?

[ Her laugh, while quiet, is quite lovely Loki thinks. Tomorrow he'll have to discover if she's ticklish at all. ]

Of course I will, without question. [ He chuckled at her little ear pinch before humming in consideration. ]

It depends on what position they hold in Asgardian society. Warriors and the Valkyries wear armor of course. But everyone else? They're like... robes, I suppose. Very, hm, drapey.

Midgardian fashion is more interesting and more complicated.

[ Of course, he says, as if she might know about Valkyries.

Alexandrie opens her mouth to ask— about Valkyries, about Midgard— but is interrupted by a yawn born of a number of different kinds of exhaustion catching up with her of a sudden combined with the peace of holding a body that hers wants badly enough to recognize that it has convinced itself it does. Safe, it insists, returned, home, strong enough to let her trust that if she sleeps there will be a morning.

She'll remember. She'll ask then. For now she shifts a little to better curl herself around him and rests her head against his, closing her eyes with a sleepy and contented hum. ]

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