@abanasala
Say she’s a little entranced, one wouldn’t be off the mark—before her Loki sees something that could be a far off vision, an illustration in a book she wasn’t supposed to have. Horns curled back from his head, decorated with this or that band or jewel, something she recalls only vaguely. Loki had never known Jötunnheim in its glory, only knew memories that were not her own, did not know her own blood enough to say whether the diadem set in her dark curls was anything close to what her body could have been once upon a time.
She stares, she does, something reverent on her face, caught between delight and awe and fear. There’s a childish urge to possess, in her fingers, a want to touch, grasp, hold as if they were meant to be hers, and a divorcing from her body in the same moment, dispossessed, undesired.
If she should say something, it doesn’t occur to her what that is.