Collection of One-Shots

》a tale retold

"Laga, child, I wish you would not leave." Her mother wailed as the days faded to nights, the season of light growing smaller, the new air caressed the land, the harvest would soon be upon them, it was autumn.

"Mother, you know I must," Laga said quietly, looking at the grass beneath her feet, memorizing the vivid color that she would go without seeing until spring came again; "and I love him, I truly do." At first, it had not been love, at first it had been hatred and loathing for the one that had trapped her. At first, it had all been a trick, nothing that should be seen as serious until the Allfather had his involvement in the matter and now she was bound to him, the one that tricked the sun.

"Write to me Laga," Gefjun said. Laga nodded and turned from her mother and in a cloud of smoke she was gone from the bright world of above and sent to the dark world below. In the realm he calls his own, Loki waits, he knows the day, has counted them since she returned to her mother and the world above.

Centuries may pass, but he's certain her warm will never fade in that time. She still greets him with a smile, a soft peel of laughter as he stumbles over greeting her as he somehow managed to once again forget that this time was so close. He really should stop working himself near to death in her absence or so she says in a playful reprimand.

But the warmest moment is the instant when he can feel the sunshine heat under her skin as she steps into the circle of his arms. It's in the sweet smell of flowers as she moves to meet him, and the petal-soft brush of her lips on his. It's in the happiness, and warmth that flows through each word as she whispers, "I'm home."

Laga smiles. She can't remember a time when she wasn't in his arms. Warm and strong, it brought her such peace each fall every time he welcomed her home. Sometimes he waited at the entrance to their palace, other times he was caught up with his work that he forgot the time. Not this time, however. He drew her close, and he pulled her down the hall. The journey was long, he knew, and even though he usually wasn't nearly as tired he would find the time to rest with her.

Her kisses are filled with laughter; her smiles—sunlight. And when the time came for them to lay together, their bodies a tangle of limbs in sheets, it was as if the world around them ceased to exist beyond the realm of their bedroom.

It is light, different and strange and beautiful all at once when she returns and he takes to an early night to have this time with her. There are warmth and comfort with her at his side—while the world has taken to the snow and chill of winter, she has brought spring and life with her to this realm, to him.

The weight of her legs swung about his hips serve as his anchor as he's swept up in her. It is an instance where he can let go, where he can let the weight of his duty be lifted from his shoulders as he indulges in their passions. There are peals of laughter strewn between moans, soft teasing when they don't meet quite the right way—but it is all the more perfect in its imperfection as they become familiar with one another again after the long months spent apart.

So he held her close, his fingers in her hair, holding her close as if it wasn't close enough. She loved it, and she smiled as she rested against his chest, holding onto his arm.

It was good to be home.

The next morn, Laga wakes before Loki, fumbles with lighting a candle, and gathers up a piece of parchment and ink for a quill to write Gefjun.

Mother, he is a gentleman.
He is a builder with bricks of moonlight.
He knows the secret places of the earth.

She looks over her shoulder and watches the way his chest rises and falls. He is at peace, whole again, now that she has returned. The words come easily then.

When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.
The night crawls nearer.
The moans of the dead roll and swell.

A fleeting smile creeps up onto her lips as she writes one final line.

Mother, we are well.