[ The tightened arm around her shoulders to secure her, the way he offers his understanding in the palm of his hand with eyes averted so as to not put the wildness of her to flight— these things would make Alexandrie break into tears if she could, but she cannot. She has strayed close enough to asking him to guard a secret he has no stake in as it is, and she is afraid that if she begins to weep she will never stop.

And so the howls stay in her chest— the he is not here and he has not been here in so long packed neatly next to I do not know where he is and I do not know if he lives, all arrayed above I am alone, alone, alone, and no-one can know— and she remains upright, as if her world still contains the axis on which it turns, using only the memory of what it had felt like to be held with such certainty that there was no room for fear. Still, her nod is slow and careful as if moving too fast will make her spill whatever she holds. ]

It is left to us to trust, I think. In what she knows, in her cleverness and ingenuity.

[ Athessa, although Loki is in the shadow of the words. ]

We must believe she will come back when she is finished with whatever it is she does, and with a fine story for us.