[ She is connecting; little strands and how they intertwine, like tatting lace.
Born something else, unknowing. She wonders if the hesitation between I and didn't take it very well contains something akin to the consumptive rage and self-loathing that had caused the rift between her and her lord that had finally been sewn with his hands— bruised and torn from madly trying to pull the bloody-written accusations of his monstrosity from the walls as the Fade flowed through the Gallows, coalescing into fear and memory— in hers to let her love him.
Grown in the ever lengthening shadow of their golden elder brothers, magic taught by their mothers, fathers whose approval seemed ever remote.
There it deviates. She wonders if her husband would have done as Corypheus does now, if he had been given the chance. Rip the world asunder with an artifact for the gain of power and dominion. To pull himself free from his brother’s undertow he might have… but he had not. That, and the blow of its failure in part at Thor’s hands, belongs to this man.
And the promised future? Her husband had in a way betrayed his people, fighting for the South. In wedding her, a magicless daughter of the empire with whom his own shared a bloodsoaked ancient enmity. His mother had been murdered in front of him— in part because he and Thor had turned rebel— and he could do nothing to prevent her death, had blamed himself. Perhaps he works his homeland’s destruction even now, and the last...
Thor would have told her, would have found a way to. Thor, who had, before she had married his brother, invited her to stand Tevinter's vigil as a wife when they had thought Loki dead, knows what exists between them. He may not have understood it, but Thor doesn't need to understand things to accept them because the firstborn son of Asgard trusts the world in a way his brother does not.
(It is not the same. Cannot be. She will not let it be.)
The rest— escape, being used by some other force like a hunting dog to catch another self, rebellion, erasure leading to waking here—is this Loki’s.
There is so much. And it sounds, save Sylvie, as if he has been alone.
She lifts her head at the end. Lets the blanket slip from her shoulders as she stands and moves so she can touch his cheek with her free hand, bend to press her lips to his forehead, rest her own there, and whisper into the small space between them. ]
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Born something else, unknowing. She wonders if the hesitation between I and didn't take it very well contains something akin to the consumptive rage and self-loathing that had caused the rift between her and her lord that had finally been sewn with his hands— bruised and torn from madly trying to pull the bloody-written accusations of his monstrosity from the walls as the Fade flowed through the Gallows, coalescing into fear and memory— in hers to let her love him.
Grown in the ever lengthening shadow of their golden elder brothers, magic taught by their mothers, fathers whose approval seemed ever remote.
There it deviates. She wonders if her husband would have done as Corypheus does now, if he had been given the chance. Rip the world asunder with an artifact for the gain of power and dominion. To pull himself free from his brother’s undertow he might have… but he had not. That, and the blow of its failure in part at Thor’s hands, belongs to this man.
And the promised future? Her husband had in a way betrayed his people, fighting for the South. In wedding her, a magicless daughter of the empire with whom his own shared a bloodsoaked ancient enmity. His mother had been murdered in front of him— in part because he and Thor had turned rebel— and he could do nothing to prevent her death, had blamed himself. Perhaps he works his homeland’s destruction even now, and the last...
Thor would have told her, would have found a way to. Thor, who had, before she had married his brother, invited her to stand Tevinter's vigil as a wife when they had thought Loki dead, knows what exists between them. He may not have understood it, but Thor doesn't need to understand things to accept them because the firstborn son of Asgard trusts the world in a way his brother does not.
(It is not the same. Cannot be. She will not let it be.)
The rest— escape, being used by some other force like a hunting dog to catch another self, rebellion, erasure leading to waking here—is this Loki’s.
There is so much. And it sounds, save Sylvie, as if he has been alone.
She lifts her head at the end. Lets the blanket slip from her shoulders as she stands and moves so she can touch his cheek with her free hand, bend to press her lips to his forehead, rest her own there, and whisper into the small space between them. ]
Thank you.