[ It is painful, to say much of them. To take the risk of inviting back in unleashed memories. Esja has never asked him to do that for her. Her warm arms and her soothing touch invites oblivion, if he should want it; he need say nothing in the end, only let the gentle allure of her do its work. But after a moment he shifts position again, returning to his back. His hands urge her with him, draw her to lie close against him, and he strokes the dark fall of her hair. ]
Odin and Frigga are gone. Any Aesir in the meadhall will sing of them to you, if you want to hear their tales. You've heard some of them already. [ He hesitates. ] I don't know that my brother is dead. He has gone too far from me. Word of him does not reach me anymore.
[ It is not that he has never spoken of Loki. He has told her one or two tales of their youth, fighting giants and wooing giantesses, hunting strange beasts across far realms, gambling Mjolnir away and winning it back. Tricking and being tricked again. Nothing was ever so much fun if Loki was not with him. He never told her of how they became enemies, but he does so now, in a slow and halting way by which path he must confess to Jane as well as the years ignoring the responsibilities of a future king in favor of Midgard. It is a relief, a balm to his weary mind to have the words spoken aloud as they have not been for very long. To confess baldly at the end of it, with tears standing out in his eyes, that it was his fault. That he knows now he taught his brother to hate him. ]
gosh i'm sorry for my slow
[ It is painful, to say much of them. To take the risk of inviting back in unleashed memories. Esja has never asked him to do that for her. Her warm arms and her soothing touch invites oblivion, if he should want it; he need say nothing in the end, only let the gentle allure of her do its work. But after a moment he shifts position again, returning to his back. His hands urge her with him, draw her to lie close against him, and he strokes the dark fall of her hair. ]
Odin and Frigga are gone. Any Aesir in the meadhall will sing of them to you, if you want to hear their tales. You've heard some of them already. [ He hesitates. ] I don't know that my brother is dead. He has gone too far from me. Word of him does not reach me anymore.
[ It is not that he has never spoken of Loki. He has told her one or two tales of their youth, fighting giants and wooing giantesses, hunting strange beasts across far realms, gambling Mjolnir away and winning it back. Tricking and being tricked again. Nothing was ever so much fun if Loki was not with him. He never told her of how they became enemies, but he does so now, in a slow and halting way by which path he must confess to Jane as well as the years ignoring the responsibilities of a future king in favor of Midgard. It is a relief, a balm to his weary mind to have the words spoken aloud as they have not been for very long. To confess baldly at the end of it, with tears standing out in his eyes, that it was his fault. That he knows now he taught his brother to hate him. ]