Loki cries bitterly and, for the better part, in silence against Alexandrie's neck. His hold on her is too tight, his fingers will leave spots of aching he is certain, but he cannot let her go. At the moment she is as much tether as she is comfort and so he hangs onto her like a man who has fallen overboard and has a single line left to him.

It is some time before he has no more tears left. When he finally calms it is with a hollowness--it seeps into his limbs and his muscles, leaving him pliant in an uncomfortable way. He does not pick his head up from her neck, not even as he finally lets his leaden limbs soften their hold on her.

His mother is dead.

The very thought tries to drag him back to weeping but, after so long, he simply cannot indulge in it any longer. It is a bare fact, now, with no tears to obscure it. The thought that chases after it is stranger still, and his brow furrows as it occurs to him--he has no reason to return to Tevinter. Certainly Odin is there, but his father does not care for him, and Tevene politics are not appealing in and of themselves. All that is left in his homeland is distraction and games and, just this moment, the idea of playing them makes him a bit ill.

He says nothing as they lie there but he does free an arm so that he can draw the blankets about them again. It is, as always, too cold in Kirkwall.