I see you || Loki

12. Passionate Pains

Twelve days. How was it possible that Loki had had only been absent for twelve days? Your chambers were far too small, too empty, too quiet. You paced the floor, running out of steps between one wall and another. You abandoned your room in favor of wandering the frozen gardens. The familiar paths kept your feet busy, but the shadows in every alcove seemed to whisper to you and the cold made you think of things that were decidedly warmer. You left the gardens to go to the library. At least there, your mind could be occupied by something other than thoughts of Loki. But the books that once welcomed you home every day felt cold and distant. You couldn't even pet the damned library cat without a pang of loneliness. You finally fled the library in favor of your room, where you could huddle in your bed and hold yourself together.

You were the same person as always, with the same interests and passions and loves. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. It hadn't.

But everything had.

You had let it with your stupid pride and your stupid games and your stupid, inappropriate attachment to Loki. And he had only been gone twelve days.

The sound of running servants was your first warning that the armies were back. You perked up from where you'd curled on the couch and sprang to your feet. You hurried down the stairs and outside, your skirt held in one hand. Soldiers filled the courtyard outside, reuniting with their families to a chorus of joyous shouts. At the head of the warriors was Thor, flush with the glow of victory. But no Loki. You scanned the faces of the crowd, but nowhere did you find the dark hair and piercing eyes you sought.

"Has Loki returned?" you asked a woman who cheered near you.

She looked out at the returning throng as well. "I haven't seen him."

"Loki?" asked a nearby man. "He was injured."

Your heart stopped.

You rushed through the palace halls, walking when others could see you, sprinting when they could not. 'Injured' could mean a lot of things. Injured could mean a cut or bruise, a broken bone, a split skull, a deep wound, infection, loss of limb, severe disability. Injured could mean Loki was on his deathbed.

You arrived in the medical rooms out of breath.

"My lady," said the nurse at the front, her voice laced with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I—" You gulped a few breaths. You couldn't ask after Loki. Not directly. Not without giving away everything. "I wanted to visit the wounded."

You followed her through the rooms, pressing hands that reached out for you, offering smiles and words of comfort. All the while, your eyes roved restlessly over the beds. Loki wasn't in the first room, nor in the next, nor the next, nor the next. A mounting anxiety fizzed just inside your ribcage like the lit end of a firecracker. You maintained all appearances of calm and comfort, while inside you strained to see through walls and around corners. If Loki was injured, where in all the stars was he?

You finished the round of rooms with the nurse and, as she thanked you, you couldn't hold in your desperation any longer. "I heard that Prince Loki was injured. Is he here?"

Her eyes softened, almost like she understood, but she didn't ask after the issue. "He was, but he's in his rooms now. He'll be more comfortable there."

You barely managed to thank her before you were off again, taking as many back hallways as possible to avoid curious eyes that would follow your too hurried form.

The front room of Loki's suite was empty, so you rushed through to the bedroom. You burst through the door, breathless and half-wild, to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He still wore his armor, dirty and crusted with blood. His hair lay lank and matted against his forehead. At the sound of your entrance, he looked up sharply. His eyes flashed. "I have told you before—"