Gods.

She's already tired of them, and something in her bones says she's been tired of them. If that's why the Queen and Daddy Loki and Saga are gone, she's already exhausted. Her tail swishes, watching the light die as she paces perpendicular to the horizon. She doesn't want to think about what's out there. She doesn't want to think of the world right now, not when hers is so fragile and shattered. If her other two fathers aren't leaving now, it doesn't stop her. At this moment, any of them could leave and return to the spirit world. That precedent is set.

And is she a God? She ought to be. She ought to have that power. But she feels so small and fragile, like at any minute the wrong step could shatter her into a thousand pieces.

Ahead, one of her half-siblings sits. One of the Trueborn, the ones acknowledged as a Demigod. Without Freya, are they finally equal in circumstance? If Tyr leads their remnants as King, she is a Princess now. After all, Freya was not Tyr's wife. If she is to be a bastard, so is this golden boy.

She wants to be angry at him. She wants to scream at him. She feels the rage build up in her as she approaches, but its swelling causes the surface to break. The anger bleeds out, dying before she's a step away from Asgeir.

Uncharacteristic. She doesn't have words. Grief is not something she feels she should carry. She looks at him, wordlessly, then out at the valley. She opens her mouth to speak again, but only the desire to cry meets her. She hates it. So she snaps her mouth shut and sits down next to him, huffing and forcing herself to do nothing. She's not a baby. She's not less than him. And she's not going to give him the honor of seeing her cry.

She's going to act like this was her intention all along, sitting beside him. That's all.