In the years before the tumultuous love affair sprouted and grew between them (a tenuous metaphor, perhaps, for Loki has felt half-formed even before he knew word or guile), they had not oft reached for each other. To offer comfort with an open palm is to name oneself benefactor and your intended as thus the weaker. The lesser. Men gentled their hands for their womenfolk, for their children, but never for one another.

"I have wanted to see the seid-bairn of the famed Driflar since I first read of it," says Loki. He steps away, his hand slipping away from Thor. The warmth of that rough golden skin still tingles in his fingertips. Loki curls them into his palm, holding the sensation close.

Thor will not understand the subtleties of the moment, but Loki does, Loki has been forced to understand such things — for whilst Thor has risen from his childhood, wild and dangerous in the clasp of affection and succor from all about them, Loki has yet only shrunk into his own jealous realization that the bond between brother and brother has been soldered into passion only until Thor's attention fades.

So Loki names himself the benefactor. He names Thor the recipient of his benefaction, making the hope yet blooming into beautiful saturation in Thor's eyes a weakness rather than a hallmark of love.

—because, though Loki has felt half-formed since he has known himself, he is well aware that Thor has never understood. And Thor never will understand, even though the All-father's command has now torn down the battalion of Thor's confidence. It will be rebuilt before the dawn touches Aegir's sea.

"So you shall pave my path to the Álf sanctuary, for Freyr Bright-Ire would never otherwise grant me entrance." He stands now before the window, the spare lines of his body made translucent by the richness of sunfall that pours forth. The sympathy has vanished from him; now mischief lights the green of his eyes. "Thank me graciously, brother."