“The flame flickers and wraps in its own self, unaware of its light,” he says.
I open to Loki’s fire, peering into the exposed voidance of my wounds. I cry until mucus trails from my nose with the tears. My body heats up and reminds me I was badly burned and scarred through an abuse of power.
I learned temperance of my own flame.
Desire flashes, and my heart reddens, lit by Loki’s name on my tongue, down my throat, swallowed in tears of devotion.
And I realize the consequences of not burning at all. Of not opening to him or myself, or to love. The drought that left me a husk of myself and tried to claim me just as violently. Either way I turned, there was devastation. Loki returns me to myself.
I can trust myself.
