[ It is naivety, perhaps, or it is the sort of love that is born of summer: sweet and soft and passionate, burning brightly, so consuming that those who love in the land of summer cannot see an ending, the night falling, the cold coming in. Surely their love endures forever, surely theirs is the very meaning of immortality. And Thor, Thor would share such love with Loki and know nothing of death, know nothing other than how they are meant for one another.

So he smiles at his love, after he withdraws from the blossom of a frosty kiss upon his chest, and takes up again his goblet. ]

I will, for I know no hunger greater than this greed in me for your touch.

[ Though the feast itself is excellent, and to be savored: and though Thor does not linger over his plate hours into the night, as he might at the long feasts in the greenwood palace, he does it justice indeed. But at last the food is cleared, and his goblet is empty, and he has Loki's hand within his again, kissing the fingertips, the palm; he looks at the king of winter with eyes made hot by desire, having all the long day awaited what he wanted most, and he murmurs soft against Loki's skin. ]

Take me, show me now where I may lay myself down and have you again in my arms. The aching for you keeps me warm, my heart.