#lìf

It’s wrong. Líf knows it’s wrong.

You’re Spring. You’re Life.  

You’re as beautiful and warm as the early morning sun, as gentle as the soft autumn breeze.

He is Death. He is everything that is rotten in this world.

You should recoil in his presence. You should push him away, like he so desperately tries to do with you. 

And yet, you let him stay by your side. And he cannot find it in himself to avoid gravitating towards you, like the tides with the moon.

He places his giant fur cape on your shoulders when you shiver. The fabric is soft, but cold - the body of its wearer lacks the warmth to infuse it with - yet the weight of the cape is comforting nonetheless. It reminds you that you’re safe with Líf, that he will not let anyone or anything touch you. 

He hovers behind you like a shadow, clawed hand resting on Sökkvabekkr’s hilt, ready to glare at anyone who is foolish enough not to show you the respect you deserve. 

With you, he can taste hope: it’s sweet and always leaves him wanting more, just  like your lips. You let him kiss you in the secrecy of your room, your bodies basked in silver moonlight as the stars above witness this thing that has bloomed between you, despite all odds and against all reason. 

You don’t know how this will work. You don’t know whether the bond you share is destined to rot or to blossom. 

Yet, as his red eyes soften every time you sigh in bliss, it does not matter.

Dead or not, he will continue to protect you.