Simply put, no one enters her chambers at night. For thousands of years there have been no invitations to anyone, because what would be the point? She's of an age now where simple dalliances mean little, better carried off where she could take her own leave rather than throw some young man out on his ass once she had tired of him.

These days there is only one man alive she would welcome into her bedroom. The thing she stares at, unsheathed sword in one hand, loose hair tumbling around her face, the man she sees there would have been welcome, once upon a time. When they were both younger, more foolish, and she had called it love.

Her eyes are wide as she watches and this should be impossible. Spirits, here? How would he have found his way here when his body was worlds away? It was impossible and she looks around the room, quick glances to each dark corner, but there's nothing there. Nothing except the flickering image of Loki, lost to Asgard twice now. She looks again but it makes no sense.

"What trick is this?" She demands of him, and even now she's still having trouble looking at him, because every instinct tells her he'll attack from behind her.