[ Esja's fingers are so frigid they nearly make him wince. Like his brother calling forth the true nature of his Jotunn self, blue-skinned and bitter cold...why has he not seen before the ways that Esja resemble him, the ways she reminds Thor of Loki? It is no wonder that she became so dear to him, that he loved her at once as he had loved no other potential wife. He smiles and kisses her fingertips, heedless of the cold. ]

He would not have words like that for me, sweet wife. You might urge me to forgive myself, but he would not—he does not want to be forgotten, my brother, no matter how far he strays from my side. No matter how he tries to sever what is between us. He wants to haunt my mind and my heart—why does he not come back?

[ Always Loki had come back. Thor relied on it, even when Loki went too far for him to follow: that he would come back, to attack him and taunt him and try to cause mischief and destruction; he never wanted badly enough to be alone, he never tried hard enough to know what true solitude meant. He feels, again, the burn in his eyes, the tightness in his throat, and this time Thor sits up, clasping Esja close, pressing his face to hers as the tears spill down his cheeks. ]

I fear he is dead and will never return to me. Or he would have come back, before now: I know that he loves me even if he hates me. I know that he cannot keep away.