SEND ME A ☠ AND MY MUSE WILL REACT TO FINDING YOUR MUSE DEAD.
It seemed as if an eternal mist of utter sadness had passed over the walls of Valhalla, but the dark cloud loitered in the air above and would not shift. It was not often that she would yearn for the portal to return and cast her back into the dullness that her life had been before she had come to the splendour that was Asgard. The raven-haired woman had found a home, and she did not want to part with it. The former queen had been welcomed with open arms, but she remained a mortal and her life would be but a brief blink in comparison to those around her. The gentle female often believed that she would be cold in a coffin before she would see the deaths of those in the halls of Valhalla: but that was not the case. Death had snaked its icy wrath upon Odin and his family; it had come like a thief in the night and took his beloved from underneath his nose. The warmth in the air had become cold and great songs could not be heard now in the halls: a thin veil of sorrow passed over all those who lay within its walls. Frigga. How kind she had been to the scared little girl that Susan had been when she arrived: her arms came around the delicate mortal and all seemed well. Never to be in a family once more, as she left behind her brothers and sister, she liked to watch from the sidelines and absorb the utter love that this mother endowed unto her children – biological or not.
It was with that news that Loki became different.
Susan watched as her friend became enslaved by his own emotions. He lashed out, he wept in the darkness when he knew that none watched him, and he became his own enemy in time. The fair mortal was not there when he inflicted these said war crimes upon those on Earth: she heard such tales from rumours and shock that the son of Odin had been taken and imprisoned as punishment for such crimes. Did she believe that he committed such crimes? Yes. Did she believe that he was truly evil? No. She once knew a little boy who had a knack for making the wrong decisions out of jealousy and a lack of love, and she had reached out to that same little boy because he was her brother. A fine characteristic of the gentle queen, was that she reached her hand out to all – no matter their past crimes, their reputations; but because she loved all living things.
‘Twas but a few times that the dark-haired maiden was granted permission to visit him. He was charming, as always, with those nimble hands joined behind him and a smile that seemed to ooze his usual charisma upon his alabaster features. He would not break that mere illusion of having the upper hand, and nor would he show weakness. She understood this, as she had come to understand him. On her last visit to him, she did not talk. Susan watched him; she could see behind his exterior. She looked at him with her usual motherly stance; hands upon hips, ocean blue orbs narrowed, and lips parted as if she were about to scold him ~ but no, she merely watched him.
{ she would never have thought it would be the last time …
The news of his death came with whispers at first; how could she believe it? He would often brush away her looks of concern with charming smiles and promises of more books if she were to halt looking at him as if he were a wounded animal. Loki was no mere mortal; he was never supposed to perish, not while she still held breath. The announcement was made soon after the whispers started and all knew of how the traitor had died of an honourable death in defence of his brother and a mortal ~
The gentle queen sat upon one of the many marble staircases that were scattered around the splendorous halls of Valhalla: shoulder leant carelessly upon the wall, dress dishevelled and raven hair tattered around her neck. No, she would not forgive him for this. He had promised that she would never be on her own whilst she graced the halls of his home and now she sat utterly a l o n e. Warm tears had dried upon her ashen cheeks and now all that remained were vacant blue eyes that stared at the portrait across the hall: the same sweet smile that had greeted her upon her accidental arrival in Asgard, the same modest bow of the head that she so dearly remembered and the artist had even captured that certain glimmer behind his eyes that captured her attention so completely each time he talked of his own world. It was dark now, and only the faint glimmer of the candles in the vast hall revealed his chiselled features ~ the orange glow that was cast upon the portrait reminded her so very much of the endless evenings when he had sat with her and listened to the many tales that she related of Narnia and the great battles that had been fought there. ‘I can be your friend’.
