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When the need for the Defenders to remain on Earth by obligation had been lifted, Aslief had quietly slipped away from Midgard.  Oh, certainly, she had left the small mortal a way in which to contact her if there was true need (and occasionally less so, to which she proved quite capable of fielding small child small talk), and she also returned from time to time to court with Vincent.  Though that relationship was on a brief hiatus, as she had uncovered volumes of history and spellwork which required her undivided attention.  She would see him again soon enough, in the grand scheme of things.

Her own spellwork had improved, in the intervening time.  Such as layering her rooms in Asgard over the room kept for her in Midgard.  She could cross the space between worlds simply by crossing the threshold.  And she had done this, of course, without telling anyone.

And frankly... she could use the change of scenery.  The Golden Realm was quite grand, in its way, and Midgard was noisy, dirty, smelly, and fool of unimaginative, brief, fools.  But she was also quite tired of the contempt mixed with fear mixed with suspicion.  Time and time again, she had given of herself to defend the realm, and time and time again, she received not half the praise or thanks her siblings did.  T'was assumed she acted simply because she lived there as well.

The blood of giants flowed through her veins.  The blood of Thor, and the blood of Loki.  She denied no aspect of who she was, and walked that thin path between light and dark, good and evil.  On the edge, where only the bravest ventured if they did not wish to crack.  And all she received was scorn.  Even the fates pondered just whose side she would be on, when backs were pressed against the wall.  Even her patient had limits.

So Midgard it was.

And in this case, Midgard was the breakfast table.  Breakfast was a grapefruit.  She was but who she was.