I weep for that which vexes us. Too often it shrouds life’s splendor in anguish.
So too is it with Loki‘s asthma.
More often than I care to admit, this heartless affliction besieges him even as the hourglass sands trickle silently in gravity’s hold.
I fear there rests an awful fate in his near future.
More near than what we presume. More near even than what we can foretell.
Already I know within him lies the weakened heart of a god cast upon the ground like so much broken clay.
Regular medication notwithstanding, his condition worsens like clockwork, a plague set upon the devil himself.