Just that brush of her fingers over his temple was enough; not even
Frigga's touch made him immune to the rush of pain that careened through
his system, terrible and nonspecific stripes of pain, things he had learned
in humans to untangle, to detect small fractures, or lingering regrets.
But Asgardians were so very different, and their lives so much longer, the
pain so much more complex.
He did not bother with trying to hide it from her.
It had not been so long, for her, since he had denied her, and the memory
of it contorted the muscles around his heart far more than the transmitted
pain. He knew how he had hurt her. He remembered her words: how
perceptive he was about everyone but himself. And perhaps he had not grown
so much more perceptive, but he had examined at least that within; he'd had
no other person to call mother, ever, and if he could have one, if she
wanted to be his, he could not refuse her again.
"I have slipped between realms," he said. "I know not how. I was on
Svartalfheim. And then I was here."
He could not tell her yet he had died there. And he wondered suddenly if
she remembered dying.
"You are soaking wet," he said, and shed his coat; the cold, after all,
never affected him. He put it over her shoulders. For a moment, he forgot
he had her shawl just a tug through space away.
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2015-12-11 06:17 (UTC)Just that brush of her fingers over his temple was enough; not even Frigga's touch made him immune to the rush of pain that careened through his system, terrible and nonspecific stripes of pain, things he had learned in humans to untangle, to detect small fractures, or lingering regrets. But Asgardians were so very different, and their lives so much longer, the pain so much more complex.
He did not bother with trying to hide it from her.
It had not been so long, for her, since he had denied her, and the memory of it contorted the muscles around his heart far more than the transmitted pain. He knew how he had hurt her. He remembered her words: how perceptive he was about everyone but himself. And perhaps he had not grown so much more perceptive, but he had examined at least that within; he'd had no other person to call mother, ever, and if he could have one, if she wanted to be his, he could not refuse her again. "I have slipped between realms," he said. "I know not how. I was on Svartalfheim. And then I was here."
He could not tell her yet he had died there. And he wondered suddenly if she remembered dying.
"You are soaking wet," he said, and shed his coat; the cold, after all, never affected him. He put it over her shoulders. For a moment, he forgot he had her shawl just a tug through space away.