they’ve trailed after her for a while, patiently, with the terrible focus of a predatory animal. to make her afraid, to make her run; and zisa is running, in her own way, just not as fast nor as far as the trickster expected. she’s quietly wise, as most ásynjur are sung to be, and knows the nature of the hare observing her or the blackbird flying branch to branch, following closely after her steps. at some point loki grows tired of the game, and blocks her green path in the undergrowth with a knowing, childish smile. their red clothes stand out like a bleeding wound, and the tips of the ferns cling to them as they stroll. zisa, though, had walked past them, as one should do. how tenderly amusing to think that loki would give up on a bone they’ve chewed so easily.
‘ oh, i understand. i see the appeal in sweet, green miðgarðr. ’ a jeweled hand runs over the deep brown bark of a tall ash tree, that extends so high as to pierce the sky-streaked canopy above them, as an extension of yggdrasill itself. where their hand touches, small flames are set. ‘ especially for you. ’ they conclude. the bark is left darker and ruined by the passage of the fire, and loki bares a grin to her, wickedly delighted. ‘ however, the æsir are displeased you left ásaheimr, my dear. ’ a coiling allure marks those words. there is no truthful endearment, but loki walks up to her, in their eyes a sea-glass shine; touching her hair, feigning friendship.
‘ what shall we do about that? ’
ESPECIALLY FOR HER. How ominous that statement feels, how knowing and completely right. It makes the goddess pause in her path, and turn around to face the trickster themself. “Why will they want a ásynja they do not trust?” Her brow is raised in inquiry, and there’s wariness in the lilting timbre of her tone. Family is a complicated thing, Zisa thinks, and theirs is undoubtedly ( and perhaps, unfortunately ) all the more so. It is just like the Æsir to want dominion and control over those they claim to have misgivings towards, and she knows without a shadow of uncertainty that both Loki and herself make that list.
She remembers Niðavellir and the shadow that resided there. She remembers Tyr’s hand, cut off at the wrist, and the red yarn she used to make it whole again. It is not unlike the color of Loki’s clothes, the color of fresh blood newly spilled from a gaping wound. “They think I am tainted,” Zisa says, canting her head side-ways in a bird-like gesture. “-- when I swallowed the shadow residing in the Mist World and contained it within myself. It took something of me just as much as I took something of it. I doubt any of them even think I qualify as a ásynja anymore.
“Do you think I’m tainted?” The goddess is in motion again, letting her question hang in the air as she bent down and picked a few purple berries. “Tyr has never once visited me, you know. And he is my brother. I did what I did for him, and he can’t look at me the same way, too.” She knows that their genial smile is a front, and their endearing words a pretense, but lonely Zisa allows her grievances to fall haphazardly on the forest floor between them regardless. For what can Loki truly do to her that will surprise her still?
“There is a darkness in this forest too, can you feel it? It’s seeping in the undergrowth, growling with the howling wind. If I leave here for a considerable amount of time, it will consume this world whole.” She’s once again upright, and her forest-green eyes rises to meet Loki’s own. “What do they want from me, dearest?” Zisa asks, for she can also use endearments if she has a mind to. “If you can tell me that, then perhaps, I will come with you.”
