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Beloved girl.  You were a light in darkness.  

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

I glance toward the family chambers—-I have heard nothing.  I half-expected a screaming match, knowing your temper and hers, but…nothing.  

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The next morning I wake early, even the servants are just beginning to wake and take up their duties, but I know Celine will be up soon, and I hope eager to talk to me.

Leaving you sleeping deeply, cocooned in the lush softness of our bed, I go to Celine’s room and knock gently on the door.

“Papa?” she asks from within, “Papa is that you?”  My heart thrills at the hopefulness in her voice.

“Yes, darling girl, it’s me, may I enter?” I reply, my hand on the knob.

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I wake with the sun in my eyes, groaning.  I reach over to your side of the bed and sigh when I find nothing there.  I had hoped to lie in with you a while...I am somewhat dizzy, my head clouded and foggy...I wonder if I am becoming ill, but the feeling is too similar to other times I’ve had this, and it always passes after some rest. 

I doze a while, weaving in and out of whispers of dreams, emerald and azure eyes and dark hair...toe shoes and piano keys and fire-eyes and the blue flash of a blade as it enters your side...

I sit bolt upright in bed, a scream on my lips.  The sound echoes over our room and is followed quickly by rapid footfall over the hardwood floors of our home.  “Madame?”  a panicked voice on the other side of the door--Eunice. 

I am shaking--god, it was so...real...I could feel the slice of flesh, the burn of the metal as it--oh god, as it cut you--the throbbing...

I throw on a robe and fly out of our room, pushing past a wide-eyed Eunice.  “Loki,” I yell, not caring who hears.  “Loki!”  

“Madame, they are in the parlor....” Eunice huffs behind me, and I immediately turn toward the room.  I throw open the door and run to you, wrapping you into my arms, my heart thudding.  “Oh god,” I gasp, “God, Loki--” I can feel you, feel your heart beating against my chest, but the reality of the...dream?...is telling me you are dead in a place on which my eyes had never rested.  

“Merilee?” you ask, confusion in your voice as your arms tighten around me. 

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” I say, trying to calm myself. It was a dream.  Only a dream...

You push me back, eyes searching mine.  I can’t begin to explain what I am feeling, so I force a smile to my face and look around, searching for a deflection. I see one in the form of our daughter, who is looking anxiously at us.  

“Celine,” I smile.  “Are you all right?”  

She nods, looking eagerly to you.  My heart warms immediately at the glance--whatever walls she had against you are breaking down, and I am glad of it.  I shake off the remains of the terror and sit beside her.  

“Darling,” I begin, taking her hand.  “I am so sorry, I hope you understand why I had to conceal--”

She shakes her head. “No, Mama, don’t--I’m--I’m not angry. Papa,” she stops, shyly looking again to you, and I am struck as always by how very, very much she looks like you. “He’s been explaining everything.  I understand,” she breathes.  “Look.”  

Time seems to pause for a moment as she opens her tiny palm, and the tiniest blue witchlight of a flame flickers over her skin. Just for an instant, and then it’s gone.  

She looks to me in glee, and a memory flashes--Frigga, Celine as a baby in the frozen garden, her dancing snowmen falling to the ground, ice-bound and her tiny hands unaffected by the cold. 

I nod.  It was going to happen, it was a matter of time.  I’m just glad it’s when you’re here and can help her understand and control what runs in her veins.  My daughter, a sorceress...  

Another flash of dizziness and I stumble against you--this time, flame filled eyes wash across my sight, and I know...it was he who stabbed you...

“Fire Giant,” I breathe.  

Alarm crosses your face. “What?” you say sharply, your arms tightening on me.  

But the vision turns...it is no longer he who harmed you...it is another...not yet...but soon, you will meet him in battle soon...

You are shaking me.  “Merliee,” you are saying, panic rising in your voice.  

And as soon as it came, the dream is gone, and two sets of emerald eyes are locked on me, fear in one, curiosity in the other.  

New!!

God, I know it’s been a while, but

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

To hell with the rest of them. I am ready for amusement.  Enchantment.  Lust. Love. 

I take your arm and triumphantly greet our guests, all hundred or more of them, taking in the shocked stares and the feigned indifference as gleefully as the badly concealed looks of jealousy and lust .  God, it’s just like when we first came, and I relish it, every minute, every glance, every flick of an eye. 

You settle easily into your established place, master of our home, and cordially greet the guests, remembering the names of the ones you knew before.  You prefer the shadows, I know, but tonight you can’t hide your pleasure at being seen.  Celine stays dutifully at our side, greeting demurely those who come before her. The twins are above us on the balcony, whispering to one another, trying to hide their excitement. 

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“Let me,” I say, putting an arm out to stop you as walk towards the stairs.  “She’s angry with me….”

“Loki….” you begin, but stop yourself and nod to me, turning your attention back to the party.

I go upstairs, taking my time a little so Celine will have time to calm down, or perhaps she’ll be angrier, either way I know she needs at least a few moments to herself.

When I get to the door, I knock softly, “Celine, I would like a word with you.”

“NO!” she shouts.

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The revelers are growing in noise and laughter, and I lean back against the balustrade, sighing in relief for a moment--I am not what I was ten years ago. I still love the performance and the stares, but the ache in the small of my back is happy for a quick second of relaxation.

I glance toward the family chambers---I have heard nothing.  I half-expected a screaming match, knowing your temper and hers, but...nothing.  

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

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My valet is helping my tie my bow tie, I used to use magic, and have no idea how to do it myself.  Everyday without magic is actually getting more difficult for me, though I try to hide it.  There are so many little tasks that I used to rely on a simple trick or snap of my fingers to accomplish.  I find it so tedious and exhausting doing everything for myself, all the time.  

“Thank you Charles,” I nod as he finishes dressing me and helping fix my hair.  I am oddly excited about this evening. I want to be seen, I want my family to be seen, and admired, envied, by those around them.  Despite their continued distance, I am very proud of our daughters, and proud of the mother you have been to them.  I miss my magic, desperately, but if it is what I must sacrifice to have one mortal life, well then, so be it.

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It’s been a while since I dressed so scandalously...just about ten years, actually. I’ve had no reason to--I still threw the parties, but I was more focused on establishing a reputation beyond reproach for the girls, for their stability and standing in Parisian society.  I’ve played my part well, but tonight--ah, well. When I have your eyes to look upon me, to soak me in as you used to...it is a new century, after all.  Why should I not show some skin for my husband? 

To hell with the rest of them. I am ready for amusement.  Enchantment.  Lust. Love. 

I take your arm and triumphantly greet our guests, all hundred or more of them, taking in the shocked stares and the feigned indifference as gleefully as the badly concealed looks of jealousy and lust .  God, it’s just like when we first came, and I relish it, every minute, every glance, every flick of an eye. 

You settle easily into your established place, master of our home, and cordially greet the guests, remembering the names of the ones you knew before.  You prefer the shadows, I know, but tonight you can’t hide your pleasure at being seen.  Celine stays dutifully at our side, greeting demurely those who come before her. The twins are above us on the balcony, whispering to one another, trying to hide their excitement. 

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

  Truth be told, I had been so occupied with your sudden return and your health, and then the distance our daughters refuse to close between them and you—I hadn’t even thought of celebrating your return.  But of course, it must be done, and soon.

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“You are wasting time!” I snap.  You look at me puzzled, and the girls look at you. “Don’t look at your mother, when I am talking to you,” my tone even but demanding. Marguerite and Christine lean into each other.  “I am your father, and while you may not understand who I am…. or where I have been… I will not tolerate your stubbornness much longer,” but I am cut off with my own laughter, the girls startle at it, oh they are so much like me.  I love them the more for it.  “Very well,” I concede, “but I may not be here for long, don’t squander your chance to know me.”

The rest of the drive is silent. As we pull up to the house the girls look ready to flee.  “Your mother is throwing me a party, you’ll need new frocks.” I say and watch them contain their excitement.  

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I settle myself on your legs, facing you, reaching between us to unfasten your trousers.  You steal kisses between my breathless, nervous giggles, my breasts brushing across your suit.  I free your cock--you are hard as rock already, and I slide to the floor between your legs and slip my mouth over you, giggling anew at your low groan.  I love feeling like this again, with you--I feel young and new again.  Fresh, sexy, desirable. All things I had lost in the last ten years of celibacy and motherhood.  And the utter danger of a servant interrupting us, at any moment, in this most compromising of positions. 

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

“thereallimegreenandloki:

"Hello, my lovely," a man’s voice sing songs from behind us, "so glad you could be here.  Your beautiful daughters are nearly ready for the limelight."  I want to rip his throat out with my bare hands.

"Monsieur Pagny, what a unpleasant surprise," you say with a kindly smile.  I relax only a little. Pagny pays no attention to the insult.

"Hello," I growl, "I am Monsieur Lafey, returned recently from my travels in the orient, it was quite an Odyssean journey."

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“A party,” I purr, musing.  Of course, quite appropriate...”Of course, beloved.  Would you expect less of me?” I press into you, glancing up at you through lowered eyelashes...though rusty in my skin from lack of use, seduction still lives in me and I hear you growl lightly.  

  Truth be told, I had been so occupied with your sudden return and your health, and then the distance our daughters refuse to close between them and you--I hadn't even thought of celebrating your return.  But of course, it must be done, and soon.

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

Dubois gives a soft cough and Celine stops, and starts again.  When she has completed her scales to Dubois’ satisfaction he slides a piece of music in front of her and she begins to play.  

It amazes me, really to see how easily they communicate with one another without speaking.  Celine stares determinedly at her music, but I catch her glancing towards Dubois when she falters.  He smiles kindly and nods, and she begins again. 

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A delicious shiver sithers up my spine at your command, and I do as bidden immediately.  I know what you want, and I am more than willing to give it.  

I slide along the wall, never breaking eye contact, until my hand finds the small knob. I twist it and settle my hand to my skirts, watching as you stalk toward me, possession in your eyes and in the twist of your lips.

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"Merilee," I say, lifting my eyes to yours but looking away again when I see the concern in them.

"Yes, my love?" your fingers brush along my hairline. I have missed this, your tender touch….

"I….I…." I meet your eyes again, and take a deep breath, "I have lost my magic."

"What?" you stiffen in my arms, "What do you mean…. I… is that something you can lose?"

I feel even more ashamed at your question, though I am sure that is not your intent. 

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"And do that I will, beloved," I murmur into your neck, caressing the promise into your skin with my touch.

Your magic is gone.  I am immediately elated--you are staying with us!!--and then ashamed at my joy. Your magic is part of you, as much as the glance you just shot at me, as much as your soft breath on my cheek.  I press you to me and I can't help but wonder if you will be changed, diminished somehow...

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

We stand glaring at each other, until Marguerite cracks.  ”Mama,” she begins, a tired, much-too-old-for-her-years air in her voice.

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Your skin, your scent, the soft sighs that you always make, god how I have missed you; time dissolves into nothingness as I take your breast into my mouth, your fingers twining in my hair and you arch your back.

I release you with a pop and take the other breast, my hands sliding over your belly, down your thighs. You are softer, fuller in a way that entices me more than I can express. 

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Celine at least has the grace to lower her head before rolling her eyes—the twins don’t bother.  As one, emerald and azure eyes roll toward the ceiling, and I know what they’re thinking, I know…I can hardly blame them.  To have you gone for so long and then expect them to play happy families the moment you return…

Well, maybe some other girls could have accomplished that, but not these. Not your daughters.  Stubborn and proud and every inch as determined as you are, they aren’t going to give in easily and let you into their hearts, not when they spent so long shutting you out.

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I watch as Celine beings to play her scales, her back straight, and slight pink glowing on her cheeks.  

Dubois gives a soft cough and Celine stops, and starts again.  When she has completed her scales to Dubois’ satisfaction he slides a piece of music in front of her and she begins to play.  

It amazes me, really to see how easily they communicate with one another without speaking.  Celine stares determinedly at her music, but I catch her glancing towards Dubois when she falters.  He smiles kindly and nods, and she begins again. 

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A delicious shiver sithers up my spine at your command, and I do as bidden immediately.  I know what you want, and I am more than willing to give it.  

I slide along the wall, never breaking eye contact, until my hand finds the small knob. I twist it and settle my hand to my skirts, watching as you stalk toward me, possession in your eyes and in the twist of your lips.

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

We stand glaring at each other, until Marguerite cracks.  ”Mama,” she begins, a tired, much-too-old-for-her-years air in her voice.

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Your skin, your scent, the soft sighs that you always make, god how I have missed you; time dissolves into nothingness as I take your breast into my mouth, your fingers twining in my hair and you arch your back.

I release you with a pop and take the other breast, my hands sliding over your belly, down your thighs. You are softer, fuller in a way that entices me more than I can express. 

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Celine at least has the grace to lower her head before rolling her eyes--the twins don't bother.  As one, emerald and azure eyes roll toward the ceiling, and I know what they're thinking, I know...I can hardly blame them.  To have you gone for so long and then expect them to play happy families the moment you return...

Well, maybe some other girls could have accomplished that, but not these. Not your daughters.  Stubborn and proud and every inch as determined as you are, they aren't going to give in easily and let you into their hearts, not when they spent so long shutting you out.

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

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Your smile twists into a frown when I ask to my girls.

"What?" I demand weakly, "Are they unwell?" I feel panic at the thought of some illness or injury having befallen them in my absence.

"No… no… of course not, it’s just… you’ve been gone a long time Loki, ten years. They are not babies, they are girls on the cusp of womanhood… and.."

"I have thought of you everyday of my absence… and you have no idea of the battles… the intrigue the dangers I have faced…" I protest, feeling admonished for my absence.

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I usher the girls out of the room, following them into the hallway.  "What is the matter with you?" I snap, looking to each of them.  The twins close ranks, as they always do when they feel threatened in any way, and adopt their usual air of indifference.  Celine stands in her circle of isolation, her eyebrows furrowed. 

We stand glaring at each other, until Marguerite cracks.  "Mama," she begins, a tired, much-too-old-for-her-years air in her voice.

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

Teaser

"Mama," Celine says, her eyes rolling skyward.  "I don’t need Elodie to stay in the room with me, I’m hardly a child and I don’t need a chaperone—"

"Celine," I interrupt, not wanting to have this discussion again.  I pinch the bridge of my nose, exasperated at my oldest child’s quiet stubbornness—of course, she inherits that from you.  "You are of the highest standing in Paris society. I will not allow you to be alone in a room with a man, not even your piano teacher. I will not permit gossip to mar your name, nor will I permit you to drag your father’s name through the mud." I plow on, ignoring the continued roll of her emerald eyes at my mentioning you.  "Yes, Celine, if he were here—"

She cocks her head to the side, lowering her voice, and for a second I have to suck in my breath at how very much she looks like you.  ”But he’s not, Mama.”

I inhale sharply, again, the ten-year-old ache opening again, reminding me that that it has never quite subsided.  I sigh.  ”Elodie will remain in the parlor for your lesson. The matter is closed, Celine.”

She rolls her eyes once more and turns on her heel, clutching her music scores to her chest as she leaves the room. She is a brilliant artist and has just recently started studying painting with a true master, but she lives for her piano, her ivory fingers dancing across the keys for hours on end every day—an obsession that has only increased with her new tutor, a young, sandy-blond, intense man for whom Celine has fallen hard.  There is no inappropriate response, but he is her thirteen-year-old heart’s first love—ah, Loki, if you were here…

I laugh, hollowly, but it feels nice anyway.  You would eviscerate the boy.  

I glance at the clock—soon it will be time to take the twins to their ballet lessons.  Such things are still largely frowned upon for young women of stature in Paris—but Christine and Marguerite escape gossip largely due to the fact that they couldn’t care less what anyone says of them—that and the large donations to the Paris Ballet I make and the extensive tuitions I pay for them to study.  They had fallen in love with dance, both of them, at age 6—I could not deny them their hearts’ desires.  Not when—well.  I know you would say yes.  And watching them dance, as listening to Celine play, heals the holes in my soul.

A scream from the foyer below—one of the twins—and I rush to the balcony.  All three girls are staring at a figure on the marble floor, and the butler is shouting—a red streak of blood against the white of the marble, and ebony hair—

Oh god.

I gather my skirts and fly down the stairs, falling to my knees as my heart pounds in my chest.  I gather you into my lap—you are unconscious.  ”Loki,” I choke, “Loki—”

You are bleeding—I press my hand to your side and look at it, lightheaded from the blood.  ”Get the doctor! Now!” I shout.  ”Now!” 

"Mama," comes Christine’s voice, tinged with fear. "Who—"

I am slapping lightly at your face, and then harder, my heart racing—oh god, please, Loki, wake up, please—

"Loki!" I whisper, begging now, hugging you to me as you remain unresponsive.  Your skin is cold, so cold—my tears are falling on your face and a panic is rising with the timbre of my voice.  "Loki, please…"

You inhale suddenly, your eyes shooting open and immediately finding mine.  A ghost of a smile touches your lips.  ”Beloved,” you whisper.  

And above me, the whispers of your daughters are not quite drowned out by the sob that escapes my throat. 

"Beloved," I whisper, pain searing through my lungs. I hear your sob, but am having difficulty staying awake.

"But… Madame… he is just a vagrant…." the butler protests.

"A vagrant?" you choke on the word, "A vagrant? You… you… idiot, this is your master. If I have to tell you to get the doctor again you’ll be on the streets, and be sure I will see to it you find no other employment as a butler."

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The light is wan filtering through the curtains--white, ugly.  I doze on and off on our chaise. It has been a long four days,but I have refused to leave your side.  The first night was tenuous at best--near dawn I was ready to call the girls and have them say goodbye to the father they barely remember.  But you turned a corner, thankfully...and though your sleep has been fitful and wrought with murmurings of names--mine, the girls, your family--you are healing.  

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

Teaser

It’s come to hand to hand combat, and our numbers are shrinking. The Fire Giants have the advantage as they dodge through the familiar territory of Muspelheim. Thor has given the signal for retreat, and it is with weary resignation that take a step backwards, ready to run for the rendezvous point.  My foot slips on a loose rock, and a Fire Giant leaps onto my back, iron blade in hand. I grab his forearm, and try to flip him over my shoulder, but too late he’s buried the blade between my ribs.  Sinking to my knees I see Thor rushing towards me and then a blinding light, Thor is blown off his feet, and then another flash, this one directed at me, searing pain, burning through my veins.

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"Mama," Celine says, her eyes rolling skyward.  "I don't need Elodie to stay in the room with me, I'm hardly a child and I don't need a chaperone--"

"Celine," I interrupt, not wanting to have this discussion again.  I pinch the bridge of my nose, exasperated at my oldest child's quiet stubbornness--of course, she inherits that from you.  "You are of the highest standing in Paris society. I will not allow you to be alone in a room with a man, not even your piano teacher. I will not permit gossip to mar your name, nor will I permit you to drag your father's name through the mud." I plow on, ignoring the continued roll of her emerald eyes at my mentioning you.  "Yes, Celine, if he were here--"

She cocks her head to the side, lowering her voice, and for a second I have to suck in my breath at how very much she looks like you.  "But he's not, Mama."

I inhale sharply, again, the ten-year-old ache opening again, reminding me that that it has never quite subsided.  I sigh.  "Elodie will remain in the parlor for your lesson. The matter is closed, Celine."

She rolls her eyes once more and turns on her heel, clutching her music scores to her chest as she leaves the room. She is a brilliant artist and has just recently started studying painting with a true master, but she lives for her piano, her ivory fingers dancing across the keys for hours on end every day--an obsession that has only increased with her new tutor, a young, sandy-blond, intense man for whom Celine has fallen hard.  There is no inappropriate response, but he is her thirteen-year-old heart's first love--ah, Loki, if you were here...

I laugh, hollowly, but it feels nice anyway.  You would eviscerate the boy.  

I glance at the clock--soon it will be time to take the twins to their ballet lessons.  Such things are still largely frowned upon for young women of stature in Paris--but Christine and Marguerite escape gossip largely due to the fact that they couldn't care less what anyone says of them--that and the large donations to the Paris Ballet I make and the extensive tuitions I pay for them to study.  They had fallen in love with dance, both of them, at age 6--I could not deny them their hearts' desires.  Not when--well.  I know you would say yes.  And watching them dance, as listening to Celine play, heals the holes in my soul.

A scream from the foyer below--one of the twins--and I rush to the balcony.  All three girls are staring at a figure on the marble floor, and the butler is shouting--a red streak of blood against the white of the marble, and ebony hair--

Oh god.

I gather my skirts and fly down the stairs, falling to my knees as my heart pounds in my chest.  I gather you into my lap--you are unconscious.  "Loki," I choke, "Loki--"

You are bleeding--I press my hand to your side and look at it, lightheaded from the blood.  "Get the doctor! Now!" I shout.  "Now!" 

"Mama," comes Christine's voice, tinged with fear. "Who--"

I am slapping lightly at your face, and then harder, my heart racing--oh god, please, Loki, wake up, please--

"Loki!" I whisper, begging now, hugging you to me as you remain unresponsive.  Your skin is cold, so cold--my tears are falling on your face and a panic is rising with the timbre of my voice.  "Loki, please..."

You inhale suddenly, your eyes shooting open and immediately finding mine.  A ghost of a smile touches your lips.  "Beloved," you whisper.  

And above me, the whispers of your daughters are not quite drowned out by the sob that escapes my throat. 

Paris, 1907; Family Magic

thereallimegreenandloki are very excited to announce the title of Merilee and Loki’s next adventure.

Loki returns to earth injured, and without magical abilities. Merilee has been very busy raising their three daughters, Celine is now 13, and the twins, Christine and Marguerite are 12.  Will their reunion be happy? What mischief will the five of them find now?

More Lokilee coming soon!!!!

New York 1892

I hear you say it.  I don’t want to take it in, don’t want to believe…but something in your tone makes me think it could be for a while this time.  A long while…ah, I had hoped, after nearly two and a half years of peace, of joy, of bliss and not a whisper of a return to Asgard…

I sigh, leaning back against the seat of our carriage.  I put a gloved hand to my forehead.  How will we tell the girls, now that they’re old enough to miss you, you who are the focus of their world? I choke back the tired threat of tears as your hand slides onto my thigh.   

"Merilee," you say, your voice low.  Husky.  

I shake my head, turning to you.  ”Shh,” I hush, pressing myself into you, laying my lips to yours…the feeling is so natural I have to stop and take it in, I have to treasure it where I haven’t before, I have to savor it…”I know. It’s all right.”

"It may be, ah, it will probably be—Merilee, if this is what I think it could be…"  You sit up, grabbing me by the arms, your voice insistent.  "I have to.  I have to keep you safe, and the girls, I can’t let—"

"I know, I know," I whisper into you, letting you take me in your arms again.  I cling to you as you caress me, desperately but hopelessly wishing for an endless summer we cannot, can never, have.  

I want to beg you to stay.  I want to scream and throw things, I would rage against you if it would do any good.  But it would only be a waste of precious time, time that is now ticking away.

"When?" I manage to choke out as we enter the candlelit hallways of our home—it won’t be a home without you, my heart, my soul… 

"I can give us a week, darling Merilee.  Nothing more." You sigh and take my hand, leading me toward our chambers.  Your fingers lace in mine, and though you are tentative, your grip is resolved. 

A week. More than I had hoped. I nod, breathing in through my nose.  A noise upstairs—it must be one of the nurses—your daughters are asleep at this late hour.  They’re going to be so heartbroken…

"They are strong," you murmur, following my gaze.  "They are so strong.  They will be fine, Merilee.  They can’t be otherwise—they take after you."

I let the tears that have been threatening just fall, I let them skitter down my cheeks.  You sweep me into your arms and open the door to our rooms, waving a hand to light the lamps.  I am trying to examine how I feel—I am devastated, but even I can’t deny the rock hard determination that is forming beneath the sorrow.  We will be all right—I will be all right. 

But for now…

"I need you," I sob, and you rush to me.  In one motion you gather me in your arms and lay me on our bed, warming my sorrow with your kiss, inflaming me, burning off the sadness.  I am drawn into you and we burn together, moving as one as your lips move down my skin and my hands trace a path to your hardness.  I stroke you, taking in your moan—you match my caress with a light bite of my skin, and I am reminded of the tiny, silvery scar on my shoulder, the one that you gave me years ago, the one that marks me forever as yours.

"Take me," I beg you between kisses.  "Take me and then do it again, Loki.  God, I am yours."

There is little sleep had that night. The time for sleep is later… maybe years from now. I need you to remember every freckle, every curve, every dimple of your body. The way you feel in my arms,the weight of you, your warmth, I have to sear this memory of this night into mind, for once I am gone, this time I may not return for many years.  This night must be the well from which I sate my thirst for you until I can hold you once more. 

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END of the New York 1892 thread, but Loki and Merilee will be back soon!!!!

New York 1892

The day is glorious, early summer casting a shimmer on Paris.  Families are picnicking as we are, the Seine glittering in the sun.  Our family is together, I am joyous—how could I not be? You’re here.  You’re with us.  Our daughters are basking in your attention, Celine grabbing anything upon which she can lay her chubby hands to show you.  The babies are lying in the shade, their eyes never leaving your face as they kick and squeal.  Christine has just learned to roll over, and she does, repeatedly, to your applause.  

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This party is just like all the others, too loud, the guests too drunk, but as always you glitter and glow under the lamp light and adoration and jealousy of the other wives.  You will never stop needing to be seen, and it is one of the thing I’ve learned to love most about you- while I have always lingered in the shadows, you crave the limelight.

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I hear you say it.  I don’t want to take it in, don’t want to believe…but something in your tone makes me think it could be for a while this time.  A long while…ah, I had hoped, after nearly two and a half years of peace, of joy, of bliss and not a whisper of a return to Asgard…

I sigh, leaning back against the seat of our carriage.  I put a gloved hand to my forehead.  How will we tell the girls, now that they’re old enough to miss you, you who are the focus of their world? I choke back the tired threat of tears as your hand slides onto my thigh.   

"Merilee," you say, your voice low.  Husky.  

I shake my head, turning to you.  ”Shh,” I hush, pressing myself into you, laying my lips to yours…the feeling is so natural I have to stop and take it in, I have to treasure it where I haven’t before, I have to savor it…”I know. It’s all right.”

"It may be, ah, it will probably be—Merilee, if this is what I think it could be…"  You sit up, grabbing me by the arms, your voice insistent.  "I have to.  I have to keep you safe, and the girls, I can’t let—"

"I know, I know," I whisper into you, letting you take me in your arms again.  I cling to you as you caress me, desperately but hopelessly wishing for an endless summer we cannot, can never, have.  

I want to beg you to stay.  I want to scream and throw things, I would rage against you if it would do any good.  But it would only be a waste of precious time, time that is now ticking away.

"When?" I manage to choke out as we enter the candlelit hallways of our home—it won’t be a home without you, my heart, my soul… 

"I can give us a week, darling Merilee.  Nothing more." You sigh and take my hand, leading me toward our chambers.  Your fingers lace in mine, and though you are tentative, your grip is resolved. 

A week. More than I had hoped. I nod, breathing in through my nose.  A noise upstairs—it must be one of the nurses—your daughters are asleep at this late hour.  They’re going to be so heartbroken…

"They are strong," you murmur, following my gaze.  "They are so strong.  They will be fine, Merilee.  They can’t be otherwise—they take after you."

I let the tears that have been threatening just fall, I let them skitter down my cheeks.  You sweep me into your arms and open the door to our rooms, waving a hand to light the lamps.  I am trying to examine how I feel—I am devastated, but even I can’t deny the rock hard determination that is forming beneath the sorrow.  We will be all right—I will be all right. 

But for now…

"I need you," I sob, and you rush to me.  In one motion you gather me in your arms and lay me on our bed, warming my sorrow with your kiss, inflaming me, burning off the sadness.  I am drawn into you and we burn together, moving as one as your lips move down my skin and my hands trace a path to your hardness.  I stroke you, taking in your moan—you match my caress with a light bite of my skin, and I am reminded of the tiny, silvery scar on my shoulder, the one that you gave me years ago, the one that marks me forever as yours.

"Take me," I beg you between kisses.  "Take me and then do it again, Loki.  God, I am yours."