Y/N POV

I was woken by the rustle of a bush and the crinkle of leaves. I had always been a light sleeper, and this time was no exception. I sat up straight, and stretched, yawning slightly. I brushed some leaves out of my hair and smiled.

"Ay, Loki," I say quietly.

"Hello Y/N." The rich voice echoed through the forest.

"Did ye ge' in tr'ble for bein' la'e?" I reply, tilting my head slightly.

I hear the crinkle of leaves underfoot, and feel the presence of Loki sitting next to me. "Only a little bit."

I frowned at him apologetically. "Ay, I sor'y for holdin' ye up."

He laughed and reached his hand out to presumably extract a leaf from my hair. "It wasn't your fault, I should have been more diligent of the time. But the sun is falling later every day, and that makes it hard to predict the time."

His words were alike to what I predicted a townsfolk would sound like, but somehow he pulled it off without sounding snobbish.

"Le's jus' say it was bo' o' us." I replied, smirking.

He said nothing for a second, and then made a 'yes' sound.

He sighed slightly, probably taking in the beautiful scenery. "Can you sing again?"

I was slightly taken aback. I thought my music was a pain to the ears. But I obliged. 

Drøymde mik ein draum i nótt
um silki ok ærlig pell,
um hægindi svá djupt ok mjott,
um rosemd með engan skell.

Ok i drauminom ek leit
sem gegnom ein groman glugg
þá helo feigo mennsko sveit,
hver sjon ol sin eiginn ugg.

Talit þeira otta jok
ok leysingar joko enn —
en oft er svar eit þyngra ok,
þó spurning at bera brenn.

Ek fekk sofa lika vel,
ek truða þat væri best —
at hvila mik á goðu þel'
ok gløyma svá folki flest'.

Friðinn, ef hann finzt, er hvar
ein firrest þann mennska skell,
fær veggja sik um, drøma þar
um silki ok ærlig pell.

(Translation: 

I dreamed a dream last night
of silk and fair furs,
of a pillow so deep and soft,
a peace with no disturbance.

And in the dream, I saw
as though through a dirty window
the whole ill-fated human race,
a different fear upon each face.

The number of their worries grow
and with them the number of their solutions —
but the answer is often a heavier burden,
even when the question hurts to bear.

As I was able to sleep just as well,
I thought that would be best —
to rest myself here on fine fur,
and forget everyone else.

Peace, if it is to be found, is where
one is furthest from the human noise —
and walling oneself around, can have a dream
of silk and fine furs.)

He sighed contently, and I leaned slightly onto his shoulder. He took a sharp intake of breath but relaxed after a while.

"Thank you Y/N." 

"Na' prob'm Loki."

I sighed, enjoying the bliss of the water. "Ay, What'cha fam'ly like?" 

He gave a short breath, probably surprised at my sudden question.

"Well, my mother is wonderful. She is kind and caring, and taught me my magic-"

"Ye 'ave magic? Tha's amazin'!" I interrupt. "Sorry, go on."

"Anyway, she is amazing. My brother and I were very close when we were young, but we drifted apart as he had warrior friends who did not want anything to do with me."

I put my hand over his hand, and squeeze it gently. He squeezes back and continues. "He is very kind but was very headstrong until he went on a trip away from us. He learnt many things and became very caring and worthy. My father is a pain. I am adopted, but he never told me. I never knew all those years why he favoured my brother, but now I do. He thinks he is the greatest being in all of Asgard."

I laughed quietly. "Sounds annoying."

"What about you? What's your family like?"

I smiled. "Ay, I'm th' 'ungest of two broth'rs. Me eld'r brother, Darrick, is 'ery 'ardworkin'. He is kind an' gentle, bu' 'ery tough. 'Parently, he is 'ery goo' lookin', an' gets lo'sa girls, bu' he is focusin' o' th' farmwor' at thi' time o' ye'r. He believes in 'ard love.

Me 'ounger brother, Hendor, is 'ery ligh'heart'd and humorous. Bu' he is 'ardworkin' a' well. 

Me mamma is 'ery kind an' 'as th' mo's beaut'f'l voice. She was a Townsfolk a' well, bu' me father got 'er to becom' a farm'r. 

Me father was an amazin' man. He tough' me ta' sing in th' ol' Norse tongue."

He squeezed my finger gently. "Was?"

"Ay. He died a coupl'a 'ears ago."

He squeezed my hand tighter.  He then took a cold finger and traced the point down my face. "I'm sorry."

"It ain' ye faul'," I say softly.

"It ain' any'uns faul'." I say, but whisper under my breath, 'it ain' any'un's faul' bu' mine.'